The Hunt

In the hush before dawn, the forest breathes

a pulse beneath the frost.

I tread where shadows split the mist,

the bow strung tight as my own resolve.

Each breath leaves me in the air

like a question still unanswered.

I have hunted many things:

a deer once,

its eyes twin lanterns of wild fear;

a truth once,

its gleam retreating just beyond the edge of reason;

a love once,

swift-footed, silver-hearted,

vanishing into another life.

The chase is the prayer

the moment before release,

the trembling between wanting and becoming.

To hunt is to measure the distance

between the self and what it needs.

To miss is to understand

that distance is the meaning itself.

The arrow looses.

It sings.

The silence afterward is holy

not in triumph, not in loss,

but in knowing I was close enough to touch it.

I kneel in the stillness,

my shadow bowing beside me.

No blood, no beast,

only the echo of my heartbeat

answering the forest’s.

What I sought was never the deer,

nor the truth, nor the love

but the brief, blazing moment

before it fled.