The Northern Wind over Glacier Park, Carries the musk of the elken rut: An ammonia stench, thick with lust, The scent of battle, death and conquest.
A lone pair of antlers crests above the harem, Thirty cows drinking at a Logan Pass creek. The bull elk spots shifting light between the trees Another young challenger to his throne.
From the wood, a bugled shriek The females freeze, lift their heads and stare A rival bursts from the brush, And charges for the leader of the pack.
Skulls collide Punctured hide Beaten pride Nature's guide is war
Fight to the death.
Panting and stumbling Resolve is crumbling Bloodlines: their wager Their lives in danger
One Final Charge To end it all
Elk clash, the young buck Swifter, his horn stuck Through his elder's eye.
Antlers like lances Entwined, he dances With the cadaver Of his enemy.
