Salty meat on the stick, the fire just cresting the barrel,
the grill needs more heat before he'll lay his meat
down upon its tight scaly face.
There are more simple ways to eat deer, he thinks,
but they do not involve cooking,
and that is what separates his diet from his prey,
how the dark like it raw in the mouth,
sailva pouring over blood, and the flesh
ground under their gripping teeth. They miss
the simple truth of eating off a stick by a fire,
woodsmoke like memory in the nose.
That's what wrong with them, and the fearful
they live on, no joy in the simple truth of standing
in sunlight, a warm spring day, no rain in sight.
He pulls meat into his mouth and lets the juice
dribble across his chin. He has another hour
before he must road, before he must hunt.
