The Field

The field is lying empty as it calls to me. It’s waiting.
I sit and gaze across the screaming void.
The javelin quivers in my hand with partially-employed
impatience, action-primed, anticipating.

I chew the tip, carve patterns on the ground, all grids and spirals,
and wait for nature to bestow its ware.
A splash of false alarms. It seems the field begins to glare.
And now they scamper forth. The first arrivals!

Some gallop along like their feet are on fire. Some stand, still, brooding.
Some trot from A to B, then B to A
with cautious glances here and there. Some roar, some howl, some bray,
some tones that trickle out are soft and soothing.

Some spin me round and round, then speed away beyond my clutches,
some drag me on a sweaty kill for hours.
Sometimes I miss by yards and rage at God for lack of powers.
Some drop into my hands from gentle brushes.

My javelin dances in a flood
of spraying, gushing, deep black blood.