Last Hunter

He’s patient with puzzles,
those thousand-piece wonders that,
complete, reveal fields of flowers
or herds of cows lounging around the barnyard.

Flocks of sheep take shape under his callused hands,
thumb rubbing the edge of each piece before
snapping it home. He almost never mistakes
smoke for clouds.

“Not much going on,” he says when I call.
“Just working a jigsaw.”

Today it’s dogs, flushing thick brush for a fox.
It’s hiding, though. The hunter stands to one side, squinting.
Hollyhocks blossom under a painted sun.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”

“I’m good. I can’t find
this damn fox, though.” He shakes the box.
“It’s got to be here somewhere.”

He’ll find it. No prey escapes
that last, relentless hunter and
he knows it.

Across the miles I hear
the quiet click of
almost finished.