The Deer Hunter

The Deer Hunter

In the mist‑laden moor where oaks grow tall,
The hunter slips beneath the summer bower,
A silhouette against the evening pall,
His breath alight with the crisp night’s sower.

On winding ridge he surveys the glade,
Where bucks in dappled silver leap and bound,
He knows each footfall, each spry escapade,
In quiet patience, by instinct bound.

A field of quaking grass, a lantern dim,
The countryside hums its old refrain;
He waits, his rifle fixed, the arrow’s hymn,
Till silver lid a passing stag shall wane.

The shot is silent as a sigh of rain,
The deer bows low as gratitude and fate—
The Hunter, not a tyrant, but a man,
Who walks the green, his soul bound to the great.