A wild boar, perhaps.

In the night
I hear footfalls on dry twigs,
two, three, four, furtive, five,
fir needled,
soft treading over the night surface,
brisstles root swathed,
waterlogged with darkness,
pauses,
snort-breathed,
tusks turned earthwood –
listening.
Then on
down
rustling, rustle,
silent,
slips into the black.

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2 thoughts on “A wild boar, perhaps.

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