The Ones Who Hunt the Quiet

I have hunted silence through storms—

followed its silver breath

through fields of broken clocks and echoing rooms,

believing that stillness was something I could catch

if I moved fast enough.

_______________**

But silence doesn’t run.

It waits.

It lets you chase until you’re breathless,

until your feet forget the earth,

until the world goes thin as glass—

and then it shows you your reflection,

shaking, wild-eyed, reaching for nothing.

_______________**

I have hunted love the same way:

with teeth of longing,

with the bowstring of hope drawn too tight.

Each arrow found its shadow.

Each wound I carried home like proof

that I was still searching.

_______________**

To hunt is to believe there is something missing.

To capture is to learn that nothing ever was.

The deer was never the point.

The mountain was never the prize.

It was the hunger itself

that made me human—

the endless ache between wanting

and release.

_______________**

So I no longer chase the quiet.

I walk beside it.

Sometimes it turns its face to me,

sometimes it doesn’t—

but now,

when the wind shifts,

I know enough

to listen.

***

Written for the “Poetry of the Hunt” Challenge — a reflection on what it means to chase the quiet, and what happens when it finally turns to face you.