The Wait

Another day of the wait,

the morning breezes brush the canopy

of fresh mosses, sunlit-leaves,

and grasses,

as they rejoice in the warm embrace

of the young, gentle sphere,

whose relentless radiation

and constant explosions

are reframed by the atmospheric layer

of the planet Earth.

Holding his breath, watchful,

the hunter feels the soft breeze

sweep across the pond.

The very animal in view,

golden seams in morning light,

woven into the tapestry of dawn,

soft and gracious.

Time slows; each moment a thread

between silence and sudden motion.

Eyes sharpen, muscles coil,

the world narrows to instinct and pause.

He watches as the animal dances near and afar,

as it ponders, murmurs, or shrieks;

sometimes vanishing into its hidings,

the hunt is patience,

the art of knowing stillness,

of stealth and prediction,

of listening to the whispers of wind and leaf,

of being a phantom amongst the chaos and shades.

Through watchful gaze, study, calculation,

it is no longer an act of pursuit,

but one of understanding, alignment;

the pulse of life hidden in the shimmer of fur,

the breath between each pause,

the growing heat against the wind,

the pulsing muscles,

and the rhythm of his own waiting heart.