The Silent Pursuit

I step into the shadowed woods

where light flickers like fractured glass

and every rustle could be promise

or phantom.

The hunt begins not with a weapon

but with a longing

an ache for something elusive

something I sense more than see.

The earth trembles with each step

and I trace the shape of absence

the fleeting glint of what might be mine.

Sometimes it shivers at the edge of perception

like a heart half-seen

like a word almost remembered.

I follow it

through thickets that scratch my skin

and thoughts that scratch memory

through the ache of the chase

that is both hunger and devotion.

My breath drums against the stillness of the forest

my desire a signal fire

to the ghost I seek.

And then sometimes I catch it

a glint of fur, a flash of wing

or the glance of another soul

that mirrors mine.

I reach out, and for a heartbeat

the world holds together

tense with longing.

I hold it and it holds me

and I know the hunger has been answered.

But often I return empty-handed.

The silence of the woods fills my soul

the pursuit lingers in my mind.

I taste the bitter sweetness of wanting

the thin ache of absence

and I understand

the hunt itself is revelation.

For in the seeking, I find myself

shaped by the path

by the silent insistence of hope

by the pull of the unseen.

The chase leaves its mark on me

and even in missing, I carry something

a fragment of the thing I hunted

a glimmer that guides the next hunt.

I step again into shadowed woods

and the world waits

always waiting

for the hunt to continue.