Soft liquid eyes
gaze in wonder, their depths shrouded in mystery,
What is this
thing that lingers here to watch without revelry?
Still as the
mountain that is home, its scent is new and strange,
unmoving it watches without change.
The brown winter
grass waves bitter in the wind, broken and bent it weeps,
Yet the thing
has not moved or shows that it sees.
A hawk cries out
over the winter meadow, and the old hunter's track lay
Could all its
patience and calmness be a ruse?
off a shot rings out, the things stirs in fear,
And from its
lips there is no sound to hear.
is something in its eyes, it means no harm nor will it
For it knows
what they can never teach.
The shot rings
out over the clear quiet, then a second before it begins
The thing slowly
bows its head.
This is no
hunter, no harm will be done,
This thing wants
and hopes to see them run.
Shots ring out
over the meadow like a bell, but there is something new
As long as this
thing walks here no hunter will find any game.
The soft eyes
regard the thing one last time, for there is one thing they both
The thing will
always remember this as home.
Today a hunter
had many clean shots, his aim was strong and steady,
But for some
reason his prey was not ready.
He missed the
target for the first time, He missed his mark for reasons
But the wise
would say, "That was some lucky doe!"
As for the thing
and the doe that rested in the field, they know something that
you do not,
It's not what
you haven't, it's what you've got.
hunter will lay down his gun, mad as hell he will tell the story
to all he knows,
But the lucky
one is not the doe.
The doe learned
that the thing loved all, but the thing learned such,
Trust is in your
heart, not what you can touch.