She so small,
That hunts.
The things on ground that crawl,
In briar patch, and up to wood,
Of things that hide in trees.

Of leaf and branch,
And twisting vines.
Of all such covered
In gall.

With they, so small of feet.
Run with panic and fret.
Run from her,
From fang and claw.
Lest they be her meal.


Those things for her to meet,
With quickened beat.
To underground
And find the sound,

Retreat.


And never of her match.

Of then defeat and her to eat,
Of mouse and squirrel​ dispatch.

Of everything that moves,
And everything she catch.

To every bow, and down to grass,
With eyes that seem of glass.
That holds your gaze.
Until you see.
With last of breath
You gasp.