a hunter's night

A Hunter’s Night

The valley is pellucid enveloping all living
things in a loving embrace of softness and
mirthless laughter; domestic animals are
stabled or grazing on night fields, they have
no natural enemies anymore and have yet
to learn that man, their keepers, remove and
kills them, one by one, on nights of fire and
giggle. But none of this matter now, I hear
my steps on the lane, made of sea sand, leads
from the village to the graveyard and is kept
smooth. Anyone, no matter how taxing she
or he might have been in live, deserves a last
soft ride to the cemetery, as bells toll for us
and Earnest Hemingway is dead.