the hand enjoys it’s work

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the ease
of the threading
of the worm
of the bait on the hook

the peace
of the waiting
of the hope
of the day’s catch

the thrill
of the tug and pull
of the struggle
of it’s life or death

the confidence
of the knife
of the stab
of the slice and crunch

the slight pause
at the ooze
at the blood
at the sacs and sinews

the familiarity
of the red
of the grey and white
of the yellow and blue

the slow hand
but who am I
but hunger
but the cold hunter

the hand enjoys it’s work

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