Hunger

It stopped at the top of a small hill,
raising its nostrils to the damp dawn air,
and drank deeply of the spoor of prey.
Lips curled back over yellowed fangs;
lithe, sinewy it pads silently
through the tall grasses.
Ancient heart thudding with each pace,
beads of moisture form upon its brow
as it slowly descends the knoll.
Fearful symmetry, killing machine
with mind set on warm flesh.
He turns to the pack, smiling. The hunt is on.
And on the plains the animals are afraid,
for Man is hungry