The Cold December's Hunt This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

   I arose before the winter sun,

The window frosted above my gunsare,

My body, still cold from December's wrath,

My heart, pounding, warm blood through my veins ... comfort.

I hardly retain the thrill of this morning's hunt,

nothing, but time and patience stood between myself and my trophy.

l entered the barren field,

Dawn's fog floating,

Amid the snow white canvas.


I clenched my father's rifle,

Silent as the falling snow flakes collecting before me,

I wait ...

Wait ...

For all the motionless world of time between ... wait


Alas to award my patience he stood,

Stood strong across my eye's horizon,

In all his might and grace the deer stood,

My eyes studied the distance between him and I,

100 yards or so, l imagine.

Without so much as a whisper l raised my rifle,

He fell simply into my sights,

I could have fired then,

A sure shot, ... I mused.

This rifle has fell a grizzly bear by my father's hand.

My finger wrapped around the chilling trigger,

I trembled not,

Then I shot,

He fell instantly,

In all his grace and all his might,

His Godlike stature lay motionless before me.

His body, laid still warm .... in cold December's wrath.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

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