Mike Rowley
English 10
Fil
3rd
10-1-14

The Hunt
The trees are swaying, the leaves are are flying,
The river gracefully flows.
Birds of every kind are soaring,
Squirrels are sprinting,
And hopefully the bucks are running.

I feel  the freezing handle of my bow
In my hand.
The carbon drifting across my palm as,
I knock an arrow
I feel the mud grasp my boots,
As I stealthily make my way to my abode in a tree.

Watching,
I hear squirrels,
Thinking they’re deer
Woodpeckers chiseling
And Red-Tails screeching across the sky.
All while im patiently sitting in my humble
Abode.

Observing an processing every sign of
Activity I witness.
I see them,
But they don’t see me.
Trees groan obnoxiously,
I feel the cold wind smack me in the face.

I hear everything.
I hear the stutter steps of my prey,
As it slowly approaches.
I feel my cams slide back gracefully,
As I draw back my Hoyt.

Then,
The release.
THWACK!
The carbon enters your prey.
You find your quarry,
You eat your quarry,
That is the hunt
The Hunt.