My pathway leads around the hill,
Above the valleys where they den.
The notes I sing blend with the rill
That gurgles through the reedy fen.
I see the soft and watchful eyes,
As yet of love I sing my song
And hear the foxes' little cries ,
When they decide to tag along.
I hunt my game beyond the light,
Where moonbeams tend to dissipate.
Alert and ready to take flight,
The vixens tend to congregate.
Where honeysuckle scents enthrall,
I sing my songs, along the way,
And often, as the moonbeams fall
A pretty vixen comes to play.
From: The Beckoning Hand
Copyright 2006 © James Walter Orr