Kicked

To map the tremors
one must first accept
the truth of two living things.
A warm expanse stretched taut
with crisp bones and ridges
a landscape pulled smooth by tension.
A second force with ranging need
that spikes and drops
beneath the first
a sudden eddy against the weight
a shoving buoyancy demanded.
After this you may proceed
with hesistancy.
The mixture of the Richter scale
and dowsing rod
with jolts that spring unannounced
in the night to ripple through the dark.
The pattern rests, and swarms again,
a certain inconsistency
to breed obsession, to hook a fiend.
Each tremor fades, the map redrawn,
and untouched surface settles.
There is no change to eyed horizon
 but in the mind
the hunger grows,
another pulse, and then the wait.
Some needful knowledge or
pulsing ache.
There is no satisfaction found
while stillness haunts the hunting grounds.