by James S. Dorr
Red, red, the shadowed moon,
the loping fox against the snow;
red the blood that marks her trail,
the hunter's arrow grazing fur
and piercing flesh; the shoulder sore.
Gray, gray, the dawning wood --
the fox now hurries, dodging trees;
and gray the time that fleets away,
as fast as vixen seeking ground.
Green, the farm roofs drawing near,
the forest's edge, the fields of day;
green, the robe a daughter wears
so hastily thrown on her back,
and green the tea the servants steep
against the morning, while white snow
drifts, softening marks that lie outside.
Black, black, the maiden's hair
she brushes now within her room;
black the lacquered combs, the fear,
and red, the haunting of a dream
as she awaits her love, the huntsman,
wincing with a shoulder's pain.