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,
Crouched 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 unused,
Could all its patience and calmness be a ruse?
Somewhere far off a shot rings out, the things stirs in fear,
And from its lips there is no sound to hear.
Unspoken there is something in its eyes, it means no harm nor will it reach,
For it knows what they can never teach.
The shot rings out over the clear quiet, then a second before it begins again,
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 today,
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 know,
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 unknown
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.
Today that 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.
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