The Hunt

Frozen in the middle of the trail,
blocking the end of my summer morning run
was a fox, holding in its mouth a rabbit—
limp and broken and so fresh I could count
each drop of blood dripping down its fur
and I held my breath until my heart beat
in rhythm as they landed in the dirt,
less than a mile from the parking lot
where in the front seat of my car sat half
a dozen cider donuts I bought on the drive up.
Mistaken for a foe, I stood before the fox as a fool,
doubting for the first time my last twenty thousand steps,
the pride I found in them, becoming sick at my run’s reward,
suddenly too sweet and unserious for any animal
that drips blood or sweat in the woods.

David Lukas is a writer and distance runner living in New York City. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Gramercy Review, Chronogram, and elsewhere. His miles have been run in the woods of New Jersey, the streets of New York, the mountains of the Hudson Valley, and elsewhere.