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Spring Hunt J I M WAYNE MILLER The fox has holed in the bluff. My lantern's smoking, throwing a ragged ring. On Hanlin's slope I raise your horn to call the hounds: He's holed! He's holed! Time to go home! — The horn is hushed, but in the coves, Like flies in swaying spiderwebs: He's holed! Go home! My lantern flutters. Out of the south, this wind Must blow off melons rotting on the vine, Off pines and sandroads, Sulphur creeks and swamps — A wind as sweet and thick as funeral flowers. A hound howls answer to my horn. The lantern globe is almost black. I snuff the flame and wait, Under the thin blue sickle-moon. From Copperhead Cane (1964) 336 ...

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