The Hunter

January 18, 2009
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The hunter silently stalks his quarry.
He loads his rifle with a silent click.
He puts the rifle to his face,
Taking aim.

His silhouette melts away,
Replaced by a four-legged
His ears stand upright on his head.
He hides in the surrounding trees,
Blending in.

He can smell the fresh,
Green grass.

He bounds to the meadow.
The rocks clicking,
And sliding underneath his slick hooves.
He breaks into the clearing,
Bends his head down
And takes a bite of grass.

The hunter is
No longer the hunter.
He is the prey.

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