to dance the dance of death

To be hounded, to be stalked, and to suffer
the mortal wound. To be shocked by the blood
that spills, staining the heaving rib of living Earth.
To be driven into the frigid waters. To be sapped
of strength. To the undying dignity of pure power
and the ebb of superhuman endurance as you feel
the enemy encroach like shadow blot on sun.
To be the reluctant star in this life and death
drama that plays itself out. To stumble, to run,
to falter and fall into the fragrance of fireweed
bursting into blooming birth.

To stare passively into the face of a tormentor
who pecks at your wounds. To the raw power,
to dignity humbled, to be destroyed to nourish,
and to final acceptance, the message passed
into the eyes of the raven who knows only hunger.
To be the sacrificial offering, to be sacramental,
to the rise and fall of exhausted rib cage, to the
sunken, hollow, defeated eyes. To defend until
time to accept fate that waits to fulfill destiny,
to be devoured by all of this wilderness, and
to dance the dance of death.