The Satyr

The satyr looks out with green, sparkling eyes
with a strong hand on his square chin.
his mouth is almost in a smile,
while an eyebrow is raised in interest.

Does he see a bear?
Fat before hibernation,
splashing a paw into a stream,
hoping to catch a salmon.

Perhaps he sees a swan, floating
on a shining pond, grooming its feathers
without pause. Not caring to look at anything
but itself.

He could have seen a lumberjack,
eyeing the trees that house the birds
with want to cut them down.

Is it a lounging beast? A bobcat,
yawning and stretching in the sun
too lazy to hunt.

Maybe he sees a squirrell.
Grabbing nuts to carry
into his hole, hoarding and keeping
the seeds of trees.

Does he see the hunter?
Lying in wait, bow in one hand,
arrow in the other, crouching behind a thicket
that can barley hide the joy of the hunt.

Or he look upon a maiden?
Frolicking, white as snow
beautiful face in laughter,
as her breasts rise and fall.

The satyr looks with emerald green eyes.
And flees the grove of sins.