All day yesterday I sat at my desk watching the snow come down in flurries. By the time I left work, it had accumulated about 2 inches. I drove home thinking of a hot cup of tea, a book, and splurging a little by turning the heat up above 58. But after changing out of work clothes, I took one more look outside... "I've got to go bunny hunting!"
Day light would be gone soon, so I ran back out and jumped in the truck, squeezed into commuter traffic, and headed to a close spot. Driving in, there are no other tire tracks - good sign. I had a strange feeling that either something wonderful or terrible was about to happen. My mind alternately imagined a fresh rabbit cooking in the crockpot, or disasters like breaking my ankle slipping on a snow-hidden rock, far away from any help.
When I arrived, I hurriedly got my bow strung, my quiver and blunts and then started slowly walking through the sagebrush. I saw many jackrabbits, but only a couple cottontails, and they were headed for the hills. My hands were starting to really sting with the cold, and I was getting the idea that every rabbit would tucked in so tight they wouldn't flush if you stepped on one.
Then my eye caught something just slightly out of place in the sagebrush - just a little different texture. Slowly my mind perceived the form of a cottontail, sitting frozen still under the brush, about 10 yards away. I drew carefully, picking for my spot that bright, black eye so intently watching me. I let the arrow go, and I cleary saw it fly to its mark. There was no need to hurry here, it was already over. Not a sound, hardly a kick, instant.
I quietly walked over and picked up the rabbit. I couldn't help but feel a little sad, and I said a hunter's prayer for it. Then, slowly awakening from the intense, special world of the hunt, I looked around and listened. The utter silence, the pristine snow, the waning winter light, all impressed me with a certain imperturbable dignity. This was the perfect kill: quiet and sudden, without disturbing these august surroundings. It was as if a kingly Old Man Winter were watching me sternly, ready to rebuke me for disrupting his domain by taking one of his subjects with anything but the greatest subtlety. I passed his test.
Time seems to stop with a blanket of snow, but even in such sacred stillness, the cycle of life continues. I feel blessed to be not only a witness, but a direct participant.
This is why I practice, why I spend my time making, fixing, and checking my gear, why I persevere when things go wrong, why I shoot a bow.
Topic: Light snow and making a meal (Read 3458 times)
