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The full moon danced on the tall grass as they lay in wait.


Each full moon they stream out into the grass.

Sixteen men veterans all move under the moon.

Not a word spoken, they know the job at hand.

Back in camp they call for the copters.

Silence is there friend, their savior.

In the distance they hear grunts.

Lead man smiles and gives a blessing to his forefathers.

Three klicks to the water hole,

On the south rim they will wait.

The full moon danced on the tall grass as they lay in wait.

Quiet as they watch the line moving to the water.

Overhead a black copter circles in silent mode.

Just as the the night nears early morning,

They come noisy and smelling of booze.

All eyes on the water hole.

Tonight they are the hunted.

Quietly they drop one by one, blood in the grass.

Ten men lay dead and dying, their lust of ivory unfulfilled.

As the line lumber off from their evening watering

The bull trumpets to the rangers as he turns.

His herd is safe one more full moon.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2010-2020 Carl Riley (Fuzzy1954)- All rights reserved- This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified, distributed, copied in part or its entirely without prior permission from the author.

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