Oh, but a thought ago a baying hound
by Leo Yankevich
had led him to a clearing in the sky.
The stars tolled beyond the sombre clouds
and on the frozen pond the forest sighed.
He knelt, his arrows whetted by a tear,
the fire he’d set, rising into night.
Eternity approached, and in its sphere,
a sudden passing bird eclipsed the light.
He aimed and freed an arrow into dark.
Then maelstroms, downy plumes, snow tainted red,
the pity of the moon: he hit his mark.
The hellward bird now tumbling overhead—
past hunger, fear, dumbfoundedness and shame—
an angel, angel falling into flame.