The Hunter 


When I was young, I gathered berries with the women,

And hugged the campfire at night.

But the hunter in me grew, unabated,

And I left for the hunt with the men,

While the women and children waited.


This time of year,

The days grow shorter,

And a chill pervades the air.

A primal urge rises in me,

And I feel I must be there. 


In the forest, so deep and dark,

With sunlight filtering through.

To take my place on the stand,

It's time to do my due. 


In the silence, senses heightened,

For the slightest cue,

That an animal or bird,

Will come, unknowingly, into view.


In the autumn, bird and beast,

Are on the move, savoring nature's feast.

For, instinctively, they know,

Soon, will come the cold and snow.


They hunt in earnest, and range far,

For they know that they are,

The ones to carry the seed,

Come the Springtime, to renew the breed.


To the greatest hunter of them all,

A mighty burden does befall.

Am I to wipe out the breed?

For my family, one year to feed?


After all, the thrill is in the hunt, not the kill.

Feed your family, not your fill.

And there will come another Autumn day,

When my ancestors can hunt the day away.


Copyright 1999 (c) Ronald W. Hull




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