You bred those hounds. Now send them loose.
Your prey has a vivid pelt, though you know
it’s redder on the inside. You wear a red coat, too.
You’re wrapped in intent. You wait for a trail, then you’re off.
Red is not a scent. Though your quarry
flashes brightly through the undergrowth,
the dogs follow in dog ways. Pursue
them from a learned and measured distance.
The pack scatters and converges, hopping over logs,
rushing through brush, branching as light does
through leaves then hitting the forest floor again
and again. They’ve chased foxes before, but not this fox.
Before you began, the beast was trotting freely,
but the quick brown dogs have it dashing differently.
It cunningly runs through water – splashes don’t smell.
It doesn’t want to be caught, but you trained your dogs to listen.
In the end, it sits cornered and quivering. Ragged breaths
sway its brilliant fur. Call off your dogs.
Stride calmly towards your target. Reach down
with a confident hand. Kill it.