A Hunting Horn

Timothy L. Campbell

A hunting horn,

Loud somewhere far away,

But faint here, mournful

All is dark and damp

Mossy trees, slick stones

Crumbling mushrooms

Again, but louder here: the horn

And the pulse quickens

If there was light,

The exhausted exhaust of breath

Could be seen raging

Into nothingness

But there is not.

So, in darkness,

While the path could be near,

Or far, or even underfoot,

The horn grows louder still