With Apologies To Jethro Tull

Some native American tribes believed that death is nothing more than a hunter who stalks us all impersonally, by duty.

Our tender realms of fever and sleep float along the edge of life’s forest; they dance with death, they tantalize death like paw prints and a fresh scent.

But evade an accident or maybe fall in love—for like light itself love flickers into being instantly and is insubstantial and so can never die—and you can feel your hind legs thrust you across the field and through the stream and you can hear the swoosh!—as the arrow slices air only to slip into water only inches from your head…

Or maybe you don’t feel like a fox (I don’t), maybe this life is a crisp Winter’s morning—the snow blooms bright in the sunlight—and as you smell death downwind you realize you’re a rabbit on the run…

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