They say you are the great hunter 
this day in November
when the night wind turns from the north,
the sluggish yellow jackets 
buzzing in the tall grass,
New England Winter easing in so carefully.

They say you lift the lionís head 
with your left hand,
with your right, raise your mighty,
bloodstained club.
You stand on top of the tallest mountains
surveying the universe for the next beast of prey.

Your hand drops to the handle 
of your broadsword,
eyes scanning the horizon in all directions,
remaining motionless as now you stand 
on a hillside deep in the Berkshires 
as dead leaves continue to fall.

It is hunting season. I carry my own weapon,
surveying my universe, 
seeking the lion of my life,
my club not yet mighty or bloodstained.
Come talk to me, 
instruct me in the hunterís art.

Listening to your voice 
on the wind between two worlds,
I hear your words,
want to understand,
but the meaning is lost in translation.
I am left with only stardust and envy.

I sit against a granite cliff side still warm
from the heat of the afternoon sun. 
I buzz,
a solitary wasp in my sluggish fall frolic,
laughter from my lips and 
you are the only one to hear.

Great hunter, your hand is now on my shoulder
this November evening.
I assume the hunter's stance,
hand on my sword, eyes scanning my horizon.
I hear your words again on the wind, 
Orionís song.

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