Turnabout
© M. Williams
August, 2002

Hunter, hunted,
Running because, what choice is there?
To stay would be to deliver yourself,
Into the jaws of your enemies,
No dog would give a fox any quarter,
Nor show her any mercy.
If they catch you they will tear you open,
And the men will take your tail for a trophy,
So you run because you still have your dignity,
Because you are still alive.
But, poor fox,
You will wish, too late,
You had shown more mercy to the rabbit.