Hunting Fiery Tails

Please call off the hounds,
I beg the search to end.
Please, I cannot run no-more,
Nor will I live to see the end.

Calling me into darkness,
I hear the bugle sing.
I hear the loudness of its voice,
Echoing in passing wind.

I am the flickering flame you see,
Dying with every stretch.
I am but only humble,
I live only for scraps of shred.

In winter, I feel the harshness,
Struggling to live,
As you take rest in peace and warmth,
Leaving me for dead.

But in the spring,
In the warmth,
No better am I still.
I know what's coming,
I know to run,
With every ounce of will.

And that's the chase,
And that's the hunt.
And that's you cuttting us down.
For we are prey and we are vermin,
The foxes you chase with hounds.

Amba Smith
Artist Rebecca Sinz