Still hungry, the old compressor
rattles its flywheel like an angry weapon,
and turns its carburetor head skyward
while I, hunter-still,
remain hidden in silence and shadow.
Its hairy thick metal brow moves,
searching, tasting the air.
Leering at the round of light above, it pauses.
We three are locked now in predatory study.
Somewhere beneath the torqued nuts
and milled metal a decision is made.
The shaggy molten head reaches out, neck thinning.
It stretches farther, beyond reaching,
diving like a clean aluminum arrow,
straight into the heart of the sky,
closing its wicked jaws over the moon.