I look along the valley of my gun.
An otter examines the air,
silver in the sun.
I have hunted him for many days.
I will not kill him where he stands;
double death in the breeches
demands he be given a chance.
I take stock, warm metal in my hands.
Will he swim upstream,
water from his nose a bright arrowhead?
Will he swim downstream
coiling in bubbles to the riverbed?
Will he swim cross-stream,
where an ash tree’s roots are naked?
There is a chance he will swim towards me.
Will he take it?