the thinning

the hunters
are quiet in the trees.
they have become
the trees. green
and flowered
brown, stiffly silent
in the dark as
they wait, unmoving,
for the deer.
to step inside
the luminous lens,
their crossbows
taut with
arrows of
sharpened steel.
it's not killing,
or even hunting,
it's thinning
the herd.
keeping the roads
safe for me and you.
it's a cold game.
this man versus
nature.