Lord of the Bow
Your eyes narrow, and the light of day shifts.
The hunted has halted its motion.
You stop and silence your beating heart, and your bow remains tense.
The wind changes, the scent is there, you smell it all around you.
Suddenly it moves, fast and furious through the brush.
Your heart beats, your feet move like lightning, barely touching the ground.
Every lash of the wild grasses on your legs.
Every whip of your golden hair.
Every heart pounding moment brings you closer.
There he is, a wild buck, powerful and full of life.
His stamina is tremendous, yours divine.
His every movement like music, his exertion like song.
The wood gives way, the buck continues to run.
You stop under the glaring sun, and draw your arrow taught against the string.
The world stops, the beast moves, your every motion like poetry.
Let loose, you do, and like the wind the arrow flies.
You expect it, that moment that seems to come an eternity later.
The arrow hits home, the buck falls, your aim true.
Jubilant yet sad you approach him.
The beast is dying.
You draw forth a knife for the sake of mercy.
You say a prayer, you sing a paean, a sacrifice to the sky.
You do it swiftly, you end his suffering, your hands awash in its blood.
Sing then the song, and feast on the flesh, surrendered at last to the lord of the bow.