To Hunt, and be Hunted

The hunted roams the northern
woods, suddenly awoken by the glare of morning sunshine.

The hunter sits elevated amongst the birds.
He’s on the lookout, yet he’s half asleep. His stomach rumbles...

The hunted notices a soft sound.
A crackle of leaves—maybe a bear, a beaver, or a bird.

The hunter sees his target. Slowly he
reaches for his rifle, forcing his target’s last breath.

The hunted glances at the tree tops,
seeing a shadowy silhouette holding something. It’s pointing at him.

The hunter feels his blood boil.
It’s flowing through his veins, fueled with adrenaline.

The hunted bolts,
running from the scene, to safety, to salvation.

The hunter pulls the trigger.
And the serene woods shake with a violent, echoing blast.

The hunted remains oblivious.
It sees darkness, and feels the cold moisture of wet moss on its hide.

The hunter drags his kill home slowly
through bushes and tall grass, over hills and through ravines.

The victors await.
They sit at their table, they can hardly wait. Their stomachs rumble…