As I See It by Christine Stromberg - HTML preview
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The Rut
Wintry wind-swept mountainsides,
stags begin to bellow;
autumn in the Highland glens
is very far from mellow.
Driven by an ancient urge,
eyes aflame with rage,
adorned with weeds the antlers crash
as sodden beasts engage
Back and forth with heaving flanks,
musk-laden from the mire.
One will know the spoils of war,
the other will retire;
Not for him the privilege
of passing on his seed.
It's nature's way and merciless;
only big boys breed.