The Huntress

Your eyes are young birds
in artistically woven nests
carefully hidden in the willows
on the river bank.

The huntress is hungry.

Sweet bird song is in the air.
The eternal melody of love and death,
extasy and sobriety.
Both, heart-breaking and soothing.

The huntress is on the scent.

The young birds are bubbly and fond of life.
The jet-black eyes an enchanting mystery
full of expectations like the early morning
and wise as an old druid.

All muscles tense,
I take a short run before jumping.

And find myself tearing
fluffy bunches out of my fur
to tuck you in
and keep you warm and protected.