In the later morning with a knife and stick
He whittled arrows for his taut-curved bow;
Above his head the leafy boughs were thick;
He heard a warrior signal like a crow.

In early afternoon, a feathered scout,
Clutching his weapons in a slim brown hand,
He climbed the upper branches and peered out
Between the sun-washed leaves at hostile land.

Then up and down the massive tree he fought,
Slaying the enemy with dreadful cries.
But once his tattered shirt was snagged, and caught,
He leaned and looked into the golden skies.

And sang a quiet song; and then came down
Into his house and stretched out in the sun
And fell asleep, his bare knees scratched and brown,
His arrows scattered and his battle won.