Camouflaged with the dewy morning,

Poacher fronts the wispy breeze.

Sack smelling of death,

Spout crimson through finger like trees.

All day the sack dangles,

The dead carcasses in there smile.

Walking still walking,

Fate’s muddy mile.

Poacher thinks very little,

No remorse leaves his covered head.

Death casts down little shadow,

He passes on muted tread.

Tree branches drape across broad shoulders,

Flies land on poacher’s hair.

Insects crawl to blind his site,

To rest, set and lair.

Poacher murders nothing more,

But dumps carcasses back.

Until the next moon glow,

With death filled crimson sack.