new warriorA Poem by Mark C. JacksonHow did we begin to use weapons?Shed golden leaves scatter before her, whirlwinds seen by sidelong glance. She breaks a fallen branch with her knee. Two pieces become one in each hand. Pushing herself up, she continues to run.
Hidden deep within the Bo Tree, she lay in silence for a night and a day; awake, listening, her senses unforgiving until she was finally sniffed out.
Now fingernail claws drawn and hair raised, she has no fear no pain no thirst no past no future no thought.
She runs.
No more hiding as trees thin out to chest high brush, her breathing sharp shallow even. She cannot stumble again.
Close now, She feels nothing. Strength will not save her, only instinct.
Reaching the top of a ravine, she swiftly turns with broken branches thrust up. One breaks on thick hide, the other enters just below the jawbone and into the brain. The dark shape fills the fading sky then collapses on top of her.
She pushes the heavy body away, wipes off the blood and with the stained, sharp stick still in her hand walks onto the savanna . . .
© 2010 Mark C. Jackson © 2011 Mark C. JacksonReviews
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3 Reviews Added on February 10, 2011 Last Updated on February 10, 2011 Author
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