As I See It by Christine Stromberg - HTML preview

The Rut

Wintry wind-swept mountainsides,

stags  begin to bellow;

autumn in the Highland glens

is very far from mellow.

Driven by an ancient urge,

eyes aflame with rage,

adorned with weeds the antlers crash

as sodden beasts engage

Back and forth with heaving flanks,

musk-laden from the mire.

One will know the spoils of war,

the other will retire;

Not for him the privilege

of passing on his seed.

It's nature's way and merciless;

only big boys breed.