This limb is springy beneath my feet,
Swaying gently in the nightwind;
I crouch here under the upper-most leaves
On the eaves of the forest of Dorthonion
And look out under the frosty moonlight.
From this height, the world seems remote:
Denoted on a storied web in careful stitches.
My eyes take in the furthest movements
Idle flights of owl and nightjar
Sweeping far over their territory like sentries.
I do not threaten their hunt.
My prey is not the warm heart of the woods:
Rabbit, or pheasant, fawn or boar.
My mark leaves the scent of corruption
On the clean air, wilted grass
Beneath its iron-shod feet.
Terror proceeds and follows it
And nature draw back in horror.
Slim shafts silver-tipped are my raptor's claws
My tearing beak a sliver of cold steel.
Brief and honest, I kill cleanly
And sanctify my deed with earth and tears.
Retrieve my arrows with tender distaste,
Covering the unsightly with Forest's blanket.
Once we hunted the woods of primal darkness
And the Forest shared its bounty with us.
Now I take only the fallen fruits, and slay naught
But to quiet the rage that burns in my heart.