The Hunt Within

At last, the trail ends—

not in clearing or cave,

not in the snare of silence,

not in the echo of hooves—

but at the mirror of water,

still as breath.

I kneel, and the quarry stares back.

Its face is mine,

yet older,

yet stranger—

eyes lit with every flame I failed to catch,

hands scarred by every grasp at air.

The forest leans close,

branches sighing as though they knew.

The river trembles,

and the reflection wavers.

For a moment I think it will flee,

like the stag,

like the dream.

But it does not vanish.

It waits.

I reach into the water,

and the face does not resist.

It rises with me,

skin of shadow,

bone of light,

a self I had hunted all along.

The bow drops from my hand.

I carry instead

the weight of my own name,

caught at last.