The Poacher Muscles bulging, arms swinging Through lush green trees where birds are singing. Coming to an abrupt stop, he pauses and waits, Hearing the shrieking call of his past mates. The cold wind whistles, the sun shines hot, But he does not know, he does not. That down below on the forest floor, Someone is waiting with a weapon of war. A steel rifle, a man-made gun. All it takes is one bullet, just one. His leathery hands clutch onto the gnarled trees As his flame-coloured fur ruffles in the breeze. The whistle of a bullet as it shrieks through the air, Nestling itself in the orangutan’s hair. Through his flesh, through his blood through his heart and his bones, He drops to the ground , he grimaces and moans. The sour stench of his crimson-red blood, Mingles with the smell of damp, brown mud. His pounding heart suddenly stops, With a glare at the poacher, his head flops. His family’s eyes narrow in disgust, They have to get that man, they must. They swing through the trees, bellowing with hate. The poacher doesn’t stop, he doesn’t wait. He stumbles and slips through the trees, His legs buckle, he falls to his knees. The family of apes grapple at his clothes. Now man-kind is the enemy that orangutan loathes