In the Woods

fall, fly fishing,

And like a ghost, the hunter is there, as if formed from thin air on the limbs of the trees that once hid me, to let his arrow fly through the wind and the brush, a cruel sharpness leading the charge. As the forest grows quiet, the streams no longer flow, the ravens no longer crow, no songbirds sing in happy chorus. Cold steel pierces hide, bones, and heart, drawing blood and life, my breath escaping with it, my stride no longer strong. I was chased before, but can no longer hear the footsteps of he who was chasing me, can no longer see the colors of the forest I call home—and the breathing, oh the breathing is hard, for I have drawn my last breath and, like the arrow, life escapes faster than time.