Wet-my-lips, wet-my-lips
The underbrush is fermenting, belying
the apparent solitude of the scene.
Wet-my-lips, wet-my-lips
Shrill chant soaring, a fervent prayer—
and a warning.
Wet-my-lips
Beware!
Wet-my-lips
Hide!
The graphite clouds are about to burst.
The world goes deaf in the stagnant air.
All is portent. All is expectation.
All is taking place elsewhere.
Then bullets rivet the watery mirror,
and a blast of wind is born by the void.
The covey huddles, and the hunter darts
for shelter under a crumbled priory vault.
Drops ricochet off limestone blocks,
piercing, blinding. The gusts bend
the path of the rain, lashing, soaking—shaking
the man’s resolve.
Stiffly he rises; wavering
he stands, buffeted by the wind.
He pulls his coat tighter around him, and,
shotgun in the crook of his arm, he leaves.
Wet-my-lips, wet-my-lips
The underbrush is seething
with flurried alacrity.
Wet-my-lips, wet-my-lips
downy forms scampering, squeaking
in utter frivolity.