Maybe I've been reading too much Tennyson, and maybe this is too "sensitive" for some, but sitting out there in the beautiful October woods, I couldn't help but craft this little ode to bowhunting!
Up a tree with a bow in hand, waiting for beasts unknown to man
When through the dim and mists appear, a stag, seasoned by many a year.
Who knows the places it went, the shelter it sought when the heavens did vent?
What joy did it know, what pain laid him low?
- The hunter may never find out -
Quick with the arrow, the chance is narrow!
Send it straight through the heart.
Red stains the ground, the stag will be found
And life all over again will start.
Hope you guys enjoy it
~ Shan