After a Wyoming Cougar Hunt

The blood of lion
Shall not raise up the calf
Whose bloody mouth grows stiff
On brown root and bright dandelion.
Nor shall the hush
Of those great roars bring back
A spring of birds. We take
The thorn and bush from dust
When the good rose
Has bloomed, but what will bloom
When we have bent the thorn
And crushed the root? Deep snows
Will hide the corpse.
The calf will rot, the pad
Of the great lion has made
A shadow on our hearth.