Tired is he who walks in the dark. The dark embracing sound as the crunch of foliage fills the air. Perhaps the morning dew lying brisk on his shoes softens the thud of his foot. Cold is the wind, rustling leaves, masking his clumsy travels. With the moon as a guide he de-ices his beard and moves on with the hunt ahead.
Tired is he who walks in the light of dawn. The light streaks through the trees and fogs the creek. Birds and squirrels chatter in the branches above. His gun lays cold in his hand, like a sword drawn from the sheath. He shivers with his lips turning blue, his sweat now frozen to his scalp. His wet back cools with the wind through all the layers worn. Socks worn thin from walking and eyes snapping with each blink. Nose running as a faucet in the kitchen. His muscles ache, his skin now sharp. But wait he does. And that’s when he sees the flock. He aims, shaking, cold, wet. He squeezes the trigger and…
Rested is he in the embrace of love. The chill left his bones. His beard dry. His eyes soft. “Where have you gone in your dreams?” she asks. “I’m still dreaming” he states. “For this is all a man hunts for.” He rolls back over, and swaddles the comforter. “When alone, the chill is persistent” he thinks, “but when not, the warmth is inviting.” He closes his eyes, embraced with love, and falls back into the hunt.
-Kyle Brennan