The Hunter

The swamp grips his toes
creating a sucking noise with every step he
takes through the tangled and shifting bog.
There is no rain, but the moisture of the mist
clings to his form, collecting as a carpet
of diamonds in the filtered moonlight.
Gnarled, ancient trees sit naked and barren
the waters bubbling up in a sickening foam.
His dark, sunken eyes shift across the fields
of peat and Spanish moss, looking for a sign.
A tree, split down the middle, death  and
decay hanging from the shattered limbs.
He now knows he is still on track.
He measures his pulse, notices the steady
drumming in his chest.
Thump thump
one
two
Thump thump
one
two
Any moment, he knows the rhythm will
break into a drum roll, as he finds
what chooses to live in such a
desolate place.
For now, there is only the steady draw
of each step,
diamonds on a field,
moonlight making onyx into milk.