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Game of Life

What larks, the free bird, the unbridled fear of a chased deer
Across forgotten meadows where things live to be alive and live to fear,

To unwittingly play nature’s great game, come what may.
With lives breathed through wet morning’s sparkling spray,
With eyes bright with darkness and desire,
Flexed muscles sinuate with tough hide conspire,
A crack of something crunching through, something not quite natural, who? Something out of rhythm beats with the heartbeat, beat, nature’s heart unseats. A hide, bereft of fur or feather, instead, something far less clever,
A naked face with dangerous eyes, naked hands with intent that hides.
All nature, all trunk and tree, all little mice that stir beneath, a deer
Stops twitching, stiffens and pricks its ears against the deadly silence, hears.
To listen for the life that doth intrude upon this living land, how rude.
A deadly straight, a line that mocks, a sound that raises birds in flocks,
A movement, forced and strained, a body whose blood now drains,
Whose life played and lost a game, lost a game not played the same. 

By Chris A