the jackal, not because the labor of killing
is already done, the death to feed upon ready,
balanced on the equatorial sun. No,
envy him for what he does not know,
as he trots at his leisure to the kill, what the lion
who turns to savor the air, rising unhurried
from the plain, will mean in the fullness
of the jackal's scavenged life.
By David Hart
David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburglinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.