An aged hunter treads softly on,
His face a map of seasons passed,
Each wrinkle earned, each memory vast.
The earth lies draped in winter’s shawl,
Fresh tracks of deer, a silent call,
Like whispers in the morning air,
Guide his steps with practiced care.
His rifle cold against his sleeve,
As morning mists begin to weave
Through branches to his waiting stand,
Where wisdom dwells in wild land.
Though solitary in these woods,
He’s never lonely in such solitude,
For in this sacred morning space,
He finds his long-familiar place.
The stand creaks soft beneath his weight,
As patience settles in to wait,
His breath, a ghost upon the air,
Mingles with the silence there.
He reads the forest like a prayer,
Each rustle, snap, and windswept share
Of ancient stories told in tracks,
While time slows down, then circles back.
The sun ascends its azure throne,
Warming flesh and weathered bone,
His heart beats steady, sure, and deep,
In rhythm with the forest’s keep.
Here in nature’s cathedral vast,
Where present moments mirror past,
The old hunter finds his grace
In this wild and timeless place.
Through countless dawns he’s made this trek,
Each hunt a chance to reconnect
With truths that only silence brings,
When human hearts touch wild things.
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