John walks and walks looking for a meal to feed his family. Weaving in and out of trees. The wind is howling knocking off snow from the trees, twirling and twisting, the snow slowly rising then falling to the ground. He walks by a tree with orange markings on it. He then stumbles on a stump buried in the snow and falls to the ground. His hands are old and beaten and are now covered in snow. He pushes his self up drying off his hands in his coat. He walks upon an old tree, with it's roots sticking out of the ground all spread out. Its branches laying low to the ground covered in snow, making it look like a big white cone. He sits next to a tree, taking a rest, waiting for his next meal. Sitting in the cold, waiting patiently. The sweat from his head rolls down his face and into his beard. Freezing on the tip of his beard making it hard and cold. Wrapping his old hand around the old beaten stock of the gun. Feeling the cold steel of the trigger. Breathing in the cold air, it feels like tiny razor blades sliding down his throat. He slowly shakes his gun up to his shoulder. Lays his head against the stock and stares down the sight scanning for his prey.