Breughel's Hunters (During the Pandemic), by Steve Noyes

Hunters in the Snow, by Pieter Bruegel (Netherlands) 1565

Breughel's Hunters (During the Pandemic)

The hunters come. Come slowly,
hunched, through the last copse
of black tree-trunks, from cold,
suspended being, black their hoods,
black their leggings, black their dogs,
too fagged to yap, their snouts down.
They are on the outskirts of town.
They trudge along, with hanging bags
of shot and only one fox carcass.
They shoulder the spears that they used
as poles. The snow is less deep here.
They are focused, tired and cold.
They have been away a while.
They still have a long ways to go.

They still have a long ways to go.
They lean into each step. They pause
to catch their breath. On a branch,
a jaunty crow braves a silhouette.
They don’t care anymore. Ahead,
a magpie soars. Can’t catch me,
losers. The hunters don’t notice this,
or that their patron saint, on the Inn’s sign,
dangles by one link. Nearby, peasants
singe the bristles off a pig, but don’t say
“You’re cold. Come join our lively fire.”
There is no hand-warming scene.
Impatience loosens the hunters’ tight group.
They still have a long ways to go.

They still have a long ways to go,
and that is why, deep in the wood,
they stopped in the icy air, nodded,
a common sign to turn around,
head back. They had been away
long enough, the hunt discouraging,
the dogs ill-tempered. They barked
when they shouldn’t, whimpered
when scolded. The hunters look down
on the brick town, home. The steeple
rises above snow-rounded roofs.
A man bears a load across a bridge.
Their places are against the far crags.
They still have a long ways to go.

They still have a long ways to go.
The fox-flesh will break up the dull
meals of porridge and potatoes.
Far below, on the frozen ponds,
folks slide and skate. Parents laugh
at a baby on his bum. Kids link hands
in happy chains. More join the fun.
Someone falls down. Such carryings-on.
It is all as they will remember it
at home, as they dump the fox
in the cold-hatch, work off boots,
shoo dogs from the fire, and slump
into the short nap they look forward to.
They still have a long ways to go.

Steve Noyes

Steve Noyes is a Canadian writer living in Sheffield, UK. His most recent poetry collections are Rainbow Stage-Manchuria (Oolichan Books, 2011) and small data (Frog Hollow Press, 2014.) A recent poem appeared on the online magazine The the. More info on Steve's writing is at www.stevenoyes.com.