• Through the shrouding mist. In that
    Sea of silk air, He comes. To the
    Call he had Mistakenly heard.
    Coiled Muscles shiver under the velvet
    Coat he proudly Displays.


    THe String is strung.

    His crown of Prongs, arching mightly,
    Towers high over all others.
    He is king of this forest.

    The arrow knocked.

    He moves with a gracefull ease, his
    Splayed steps never faultering.
    Nobe this beast has bee, Father to
    Many, no doubt.

    The tended wood curves with the pull.
    The strain is noted.

    The Stag, in all his magestic glory
    Arches his neck, Raising his powerfull crown
    High, exposing the soft spot and curve of his neck.

    The string snapps, "Twang" It softly
    Issues.

    I watched asthe beast lookes at me once,
    Shame, shock and pride etch into its huge
    Soft eyes.

    His death marks the soft spring ground.
    The leaves and dead growth painted red.

    The bow unstrung.
    The prize gathered.
    The hunt, Unforgotten.