The Craven of Contentment they would call
it millennia later, when gray, stacked
buildings would frame emerald lawns. But all
standing here now, determined to attack
boar, deer, or auroch is his slumped frame, alert
to their scent mingling with pure wind. Alone
in thick trees, gazing out at open earth,
his left hand lightly rubbing spear shaft, cone
of right fist testing sharp point—flint to kill,
dig, or make fire. This blade will decide his
family’s essence. Sensing this, he’s still
as stone, no thought in his small brain he’ll miss.
He’d offered sacrifice before leaving,
insuring a good hunt to believe in.
Roger Armbrust
August 22, 2011
