Intent.

A mother’s blood pumps loud each day

Her primal instincts take her.

She watches; careful as they play.

From sentry, none will shake her.

And in the darkness and the light

Her ears are always perking

At each specific cadence slight,

To pounce at prowlers lurking.

On this, a lonely tresspasser

Comes bumbling through the fold.

His bootstraps whistle past her

As he seeks his treasure gold.

His scent convinces her of sin;

The blood-fear prickles deep within.

She strikes. She rips. He stumbles.

“hel..” her victim starts to plea,

But blood drowns out his sanity.

His remnants fertilize a tree;

A story old,

Forever told,

Through every mother’s glare...

She pads away in proudness.

Duty done for those in-care.