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Trembling Hands
January 22, 2014
Sitting in a blind with
My dad. You could barely
See the brown coat against
The warm autumn scenery
Almost straight from the
Easel. But the crack
Of its hooves against the
Forest floor gave it away.
Footsteps no longer echoed
Across the seemingly endless
Woods. He did not run
Or hide, Just laid there.
Watching the animal transform
Into stone against the
Animated woodlands had
An impact like the bullet
That took its life. Unfazed,
I cut its throat and stumbled
Through the cold darkness,
Trembling from what my
Father thought was the cold.
© Anonymous
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