WITH THE SCENT

With the scent
of poetry
here in the woodland
of my familiar routes
as a marathon runner
hearing the murmur
of the fleeing sky birds
heading for the warmth
of the South for winter
it starts to violently rain
as memories pass me by
here in the hinterland
at Vermont's hunting season,
admitting that this dawn
(in German of "sturm and drang")
makes me afraid
by clearly hearing
a dark mouthing storm
in a knife sounding whistles
of hunter horns which rang
with their fierce dogs
on the ground
made me a little forlorn
for the newly born,
anesthetized by sadness
a poet continues to jog
wanting no animals
to lose their life
and wanting a dialogue
without a rogue madness
of any strife.