Choka of the Undrawn Sword
by Jérôme Martin

The clean hunter has
that skill, steps the pavement where
he wishes, rinsing in
spring winds his cloak, his ringed hair.
Josh, with the silence
of a sheathed katana walked,
in full sight at noon
and his feet followed flowers
onto Plympton brick.
There in Quincy shade he walked
and caught the faulty
steps of stealth behind him. Snaps
through his silence told
him all: the hunters' guns were
trained and time was gone--
our warrior glittered not an
inch of steel but sprang
to safety as the useless
arc of stars flashed through
the air. That flight from guns brought
running men to him.
The failed attackers in their
misplaced pride approached,
and [CLASSIFIED], also, from
[CLASSIFIED] Clan.
How often hunters in their
haste mistake their foe
for prey! Calm, unfussy, with
his wakazashi
near his ready hand, unused,
Joshua aligned the
fates for war: disguising with
a glance [CLASSIFIED] as
clanmate, luring the [CLASSIFIED]
within range,
he gave the hunters hunting
back. So a hare gives
hawks an asp to grip and so
[CLASSIFIED] perished
on the brick. The best man hunts
but never moves the
daisho from his belt. He goes,
his blades are clean, his foe is killed.