Monday, September 12, 2011

huntING, a wife's perspective

I get the call,

“I got one, a doe.” He says.

“I can’t find her.”

“I’ll be right there.” I answer.

By the time I find him, in golden timeworn wood,

the autumn air around us,

she’s there.

Eyes on the last thing she saw. Frozen in time.

Still warm to touch.

There it hits me.

She’s gone.

She was old. Long lean legs, white tail, aged face.

Who once bounded through woodland wonder,

crossing the creak in one swift leap.

Now silent.

And still.

I wish I knew, I wish I knew,

some ancient, primitive, song,

or native, age old dance.

Some prayer, or ceremony.

Something to mourn and to celebrate,

what she has given to us,

for us.

A life for a life.

It is the archaic way of things.

One must give, for another to have.

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