The grass-to-be beneath the soil
sips warm, melting snow.
Brooks are in flood, springs aboil,
the pregnant river’s bellies grow.
Through the pine forest thick,
full of witches, full of specters,
trailing black hounds in a pack,
goes the green squad of hunters.
Though all creatures be in flight,
though the snow-bound heart benighted
feel no mercy yet,
behind the woods, the sun grows,
and in the clearing, fear flows,
a drop, for now, into a hunter heart.