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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Fyn's 21 Days of Poetry #495763 added March 17, 2007 at 9:17pm
Restrictions: None
Spirit of the Hunt
Spirit of the Hunt
Weather hints of spring, mere whispers
echoing autumn
and he is brushing snow from the tree-stand.
Buck target dragged into the yard
stares blankly.
Bow in hand, he climbs.
Arrow after arrow
piercing at the correct angle.
Three arrows in a space dwarfed by a quarter.
Practice. Season. Dial it in. Check equipment.
Over, and over again before ever a footfall in the woods.
Wood walking long before October’s cool.
Deep forest seeking. Silent. Quiet within.
Seek the trails, follow the runs.
Think like the deer. Trek his world.
Buck the urge
to be over-confident. Know the signs,
see what the doe sees. Be intimate with wind
and weather. Whether or not you have your shot
depends upon the hush of soul and body.
Energy rises as season cools near:
When pumpkins peek, when frost crystallizes the moment,
when the calendar winds up to October.
Urges mount,
blood rises; man and buck.
Man to root, buck to rut.
Silence of predawn coats as
darkness comes down to dawn.
Prepared, proficient, primed,
should opportunity rack or
should a buck blow. It is
curious what is invading its territory.
And you sit and wait
in absolute stillness.
Cloaked in quiet.
Practiced eye man-eagle sensing minute movement.
Peripheral vision honed to distinguish rack from branch.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait for the buck to take a step.
Wait.
Heartbeat thrashing, emotion jammed
deep into your boots;
to savor later, to flavor the thrill.
Later.
When the job is done.
Wait.
Blood pulses.
You can hear the throb of heart.
Wait.
Quiet the rush.
Compound bow drawn, arrow nocked.
Wait for it.
Wait.
Now!
Clean through shot, precise angle. Both lungs.
Keep pressure on emotion flooding boots.
Wait.
Listen for the pile-up.
Listen for the crash.
Blood trail.
Spatters on leaf,
A few more steps, there!
Splotch of vivid red
on dead log across the trail.
Listen. Head cocked.
Movement.
Final
crash.
Emotion wells,
elation surges:
targets
heart and mind.
Eleven points. 7:28 am, Opening Day,
October 1, 2002. Twenty-eight
thousand moments
condensed into
Twenty-eight
minutes.
 
Prompt for March 17th (Must be posted by 10 PM)
Subject: Sports fan (your favorite sport)
Word(s) to use: I want to see really strong, vivid descriptive words (show, don't tell)
Word(s) not to use: anything boring and overused
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