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Whitetail deer graze
as cottonwood blooms float,
like fairies on the breeze.

A distant rumble felt,
triggering turkey gobbles,
from the near woods.

A piercing noise shatters the silence,
slowly growing louder,
heads raise and look toward the tracks.

Sprinting toward cover,
the field now empty,
as the sound fades.

Fur and fang,
brother's intertwined,
lycanthrope and upior,
mythology undermined.

Meat and blood nourish,
incomplete feedings,
creating offspring,
without breeding.

Under cover of night,
moon shadows walking,
seeking prey,
slinking and stalking.

Evil, perhaps
but it lives in all,
perhaps we are,
if we heed it's call.

Fangs bared,
saliva drips,
the fear is real,
beyond my grip.

Lungs burning,
as I run,
the Sprint continues,
I have no gun.

Swerving left and right,
jumping fallen trees,
bite off a scream,
as I flee

Slipping and tripping,
crawling away,
footsteps continue
coming my way.

Hiding now,
eyes closed tight,
getting ready,
for a fight.

Footsteps walk on,
as they pass,
wonder how long,
reprieve will last.

Puffs of breath illuminate,
in the cold moonbeams,
icicles grow on eyelashes,
trapping the water vapor.

My eyes are warmed,
by the view in front of me,
swaying hips in ski pants,
waiting, unknowing my want.

Fur  escapes the hood,
marking the halo
in the early evening,
a snow angel walks.

Snow forms in my hands,
chilling them to blue,
I approach from behind,
my hand creeping.

Suddenly a scream rings out,
my hand found a seam,
and ice cold palm applied,
under her jacket and shirt.

Some of us hunt,
some drink and chew,
there isn't much,
these boys can't do.

We can weld on metal,
we build with wood,
we try only to do,
the things that we should.

Our collar is blue,
skin bronze from the sun,
we work really hard,
and so is our fun.

During the day,
driving nails and screws,
fixing fences and feeders,
but Friday night barbecues.

The field needs plowing,
hay needs to be made,
a sandwich and tea,
at lunch in the shade.

Our collar is blue,
skin bronze from the sun,
we work really hard,
and so is our fun.

Our hands are hard,
our ethic is pure,
our women at night,
we know is the cure.

Dinner and drinks,
some hugging and kissing,
working all day,
but they're who we're missing.

Our collar is blue,
skin bronze from the sun,
we work really hard,
and so is our fun.

Rock slopes capped
in oranges and browns,
leaves waterfall down the edges,
pooling at the base.

The zephyr sets them in motion,
a river of leaves in flash flood,
dancing colors wash through,
the arroyo dry, but still flowing.