by Ed Patton
It can be said that the sun drives the spirits of the day and the moon those of night yet I hesitate to think of what drives men’s souls to toil.
I am a hunter of long seasons. Gray of beard and wearer of equipment both long in the tooth and time tested. For seemingly eons I have traveled the forests of the mind and of solid firmament always yearning for more. Yet now after the days of young lore and middle life’s broad strokes I have seen the shadow that marks the turn from freedom to watchfulness.
Deep in the forest it creeps now and I turned to see the back trail like the pirate his wake. I sense the coming of dark and grip my rifle tighter and stand and watch the growing loss of light. I no longer control as I did and I drift to the home trail sooner than before. I stop and turn and watch behind me seeking that movement, that dark outline that sends fear.
I saw it once.
It topped the ridge to my front. The wind beat to my face and brought the strange musk odor of what it was. It stood and sniffed in the shadows and looked right through me.
I moved not, yet I cried out inside and rippled my soul to its core. The deep forest by the low swamp was no longer as kind. It distanced itself from me and left behind the light step and the confident stance that once was mine.
I know it lives still.
I often go back late in the morning and track the creek but I watch the sun and taste the wind and know that I am watched.
I the hunted.
The End
Originally posted 12/28/2005
