Snow fog encases each
blade of grass,
each winter’s branch in wispy ice
as the hunter hidden in his blind
rests his weapon on the sill.
The rising sun lifts the fog—
a breath, a pause, a trigger pull.
A rush of wing, a whoosh of air
the ricocheting echo fades.
Steam releases from the kill
and quiet calms the forestland.
This hunting season inspired poem is linked to Earthweal (poetry for a changing world) and their open link weekend.
7 comments:
I love the way you describe the snow fog so beautifully in the opening lines, Yvonne, setting a trap for the reader before you reveal the hunter. The shot happens so quickly in that list of three ‘a breath, a pause, a trigger pull’ – just a hint of violence, and it’s all over. You also capture sounds so well in a ‘rush of wing, a whoosh of air / and the ricochet of echo fades’.
Hunting is a natural instinct for carnivores, making this hunting ritual most natural -- you've framed it so in the brake of a winter's moment. We almost forget the hunter is human and freighted with unnatural advantage. You paint it with a clear eye. - Brendan
Kim
Thank you so much. I appreciate you taking the time to comment.
Brendan,
Thank you! And thank you for continuing the hard work of maintaining Earthweal. I might not be a consistent contributor but I always look in on you
I, too, love the fog and ice message. You capture that single shot and the result so well i can almost hear the shot and the flapping.
Sherry,
Thank you! I played with this for hours. Isn't it amazing how much time can be spent on a word? It's meant to be a deer hunt but I think the implication is fowl, partridge or pheasant? Anyway guess that is irrelevant.
So long ago. I almost forgot how it feels.
Enjoyed.
Hunting? We still hear gunshot on opening day, but not like days of yore.
Thanks!
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