With Apologies to Jethro Tull

Some Native American tribes believed
  that death is nothing more than
  a hunter who stalks us all
  impersonally, by duty.

Our tender realms of fever and sleep
  float along the edge of life’s forest;
  they dance with death, they tantalize death like
  paw prints and a fresh scent.

But evade an accident or maybe
  fall in love—for like light itself love
  flickers into being instantly and is insubstantial and so
  can never die—and you can feel your hind legs
  thrust you across the field and through the
  stream and you can hear the swoosh!—
  as the arrow slices air only to slip into water
  only inches from your head…

Or maybe you don’t feel like a fox
  (I don’t),
  maybe this life is a crisp Winter’s morning
  —the snow blooms bright in the sunlight—
  and as you smell death downwind you realize
  you’re a rabbit on the run…