Woodland hunts

Mottled fur, matted with the
Hunt consumed prior days
Gone by, slowly stalking and
Pursuing his prey from afar.
Dampened fuzz torn from
Caged limbs and heavy breaths;
The circles of the hunt, tailed
And perceived by the king of
The woods. Yet, constraint
Holds him back...
The weather yields not to
The moment nor to the
Forages of the hunted:
Preyed and vulnerable to each
Moment it's haunches are raised,
It's freedom short lived next
To the prospect of
Another day to live.