Primitive Instincts

A poem about Man still having primitive instincts.

My dog and I are walking late tonight,
enduring summer’s heat again, but soon
the chilly breath of fall will bring delight,
will render summer’s power picayune.

This night the street is bathed in silver light,
aglow with bright reflection from the moon.
Such nights can often make a man contrite;
instead from worldly concerns I’m immune.

My mind is focused upon the quiet of night.
A sudden “WHIRR” assails with harpoon-
like force; overhead a dove has taken flight.
To fight or flee -- I’ll do the more opportune!

My heart is racing, while adrenaline flows.
The dog has run, then whirled ready to fight.
My mind’s forgotten, but my body still knows
instinctively that predators rule the night.

‘Though Man evolved higher than dog or deer,
his primitive instincts hide under thin veneer.


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