The stiff, northern breeze pushed the strong scent of deer up into the nostrils of the crouching beast. His prey was so close; so unsuspecting; so perfect. The grass moved only slightly as the predator pushed his nose through. The wind was shifting; blowing from the northwest now. He lay frozen with anticipation as the head of his prey swung around and held, suspended in air, with wild eyes searching for the figure that lay hidden in the spring grass.

Running, panting, barely breathing,
Sprinting up the lonely trail.
Wond'ring if, that by its fleeing,
It succeeds, or will it fail?
Never falt'ring, never wav'ring,
Quick the hunted deer does sail
O'er the logs like darkness fleeting
Through the meadow and the vale.

Lazy-leafed sentinels
Looked down to see a solitary shape
Staring ahead intently while brown ghosts
Melted by on either side
And, laughing
Moved on

Why do they hunt us, Why?
Why do they want our skin?
It looks better on ME, than on THEM.
They use these big boomers called "guns."
And they've killed many of our sons.
I don't see how they can find us;
We can smell them a mile away.
They sneek up on us;
while we're sleeping the day away.
I wish the Indians would drive them out;
But, oh, the white man guns are stout!
We're gonna have to get used to having them about.