On the yew tree, snowflakes glisten.
Cold air freezes breath to cloud.
I stop in my tracks to listen--
Silence in a snowy shroud.

Thoughts of past and future buried.
Moment only matters here.
Suddenly, a sound is carried.
What will follow - wolf or deer?

Simple choices. Hunt, be hunted.
Breath comes faster, muscles tense.
Instincts rise which I thought blunted,
Bowstring-taut is every sense.

Bursting from the underbrushes,
Fox fangs tear into a hare.
Life feeds life, a hot stream gushes.
My heart beats in a useless flare.

Death is near, and life feels crisper.
Blood red berries on green yew.
Deep within, I hear a whisper,
Clear as ice: "This time, not you."

© Michaela Macha of Odin's Gift

- This poem is in the Common Domain and may be freely distributed
provided it remains unchanged, including copyright notice and this License -