0125

a storm flashes the white over his black hair,
through the vines of soaking streams a dark stare,
towards the panther just as black with teeth showing,
again the storm flashes now with winds blowing,
holding in his hand a sharpened stick at the end,
to attack they claw and bite to one hell would send,
slicing and cutting in deep with screams of pain,
pushing and pulling with the vein popping strain,
the water of the rains washes the blood over the ground,
they both lay in the mud listening to the breathing sound,
looking over he reaches out to the panther as the breathing stops,
as the storm is over and silent from those last rain drops.