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Time To Fight Back

The humans were encroaching on their hunting ground.
They'd have to send a dire message, which would be found.
They didn't want to fight or start a deadly war.
They were only three Shewolves, but were used to gore.

The humans always came in groups of two or more.
To kill just one human would be a grueling chore.
They tracked and they stalked for the perfect time to strike.
The humans all looked, moved, conversed and smelled alike.

They stunk, built fires, and trashed the ancient hunting ground.
Some stayed riverside, precious gold was to be found.
That was the venue to attack the greedy crews.
They didn't need more reasons to light their short fuse.

At night was the best time for a killing attack.
They needed to be cunning and not leave a track.
They didn't fear these beings, to fail was to die.
They had to fight for what was theirs, or at least try.

They waited for a waning moon for this great feat.
Strike with cruel force and like lightning, Death they must cheat.
They crept with stealth; soon the two miners were in sight.
They slept sound, without the smallest tremor of fright.

The trio struck quickly, and took one by the throat.
They drug him to the river and knew he would float.
It was a soundless kill, and the other slept on.
He awoke in the dawn with a stretch and a yawn.

He called for his partner and longtime hunting mate.
He wasn't worried yet, in his slow sleepy state.
While cooking breakfast he began to worry some.
He looked around now, and spotted a severed thumb.

There was no other sign of a struggle in camp.
Now the sweat started to bead, and his hands grew damp.
He grabbed his loaded rifle and a bunch of shells.
He wouldn't give up without many shouts and yells.

Weeks would be gone, before the lone miner was through.
He packed their belongings, and loaded their canoe.
He took the single thumb, now long turned grey and hard.
He would keep this memento, his mind always scarred.

Their home was filled with the smell of flesh quite rotten.
The miners were gone now, but never forgotten.
Hunting and stalking and killing were their real knack.
Now was the place, and now was the Time to Fight Back.

poem by J.B. LeBuert
Added by Poetry Lover
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