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Rutting
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Rutting

piercing spikes penetrate the forest dawn
the Stag rises, crackles and ruts,
his guttural roaring upstaging
the trees yearly striptease
nuts, wood, bark and leaf
flutter, quiver and fall
silent witnesses to the need of scent, search and seed
his crown of thorns a halo of might
sharpening up his battered horns
head-stretched antlers in battle-lock
Catapulting towards his red rival
wounding, spitting spittle of skin and kin
triumphant, his mane of thorns harden and rise
his oil deep eyes melt down his prize
She waits, doe-eyed, trembling, expectant.
The cotton wet mist softens the thundering thrust
his humping hammer of bone, meat and gore
her eyes freeze as sudden as a death shot
she falls down upon the deep forest floor
and listens to the ancient patterned dawn.

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