The Blind

Not a bird in a tree makes a sound; it is quiet.

Except for the crisp crunch of my boots,

The entire world is still asleep.

At five in the morning, there is nothing.

Noon, and my body begins to feel the arctic wind,

Scouring my bare face like an icy comb.

That feeling of emptiness tends to loom

Over me, as I contemplate leaving.

Seven hours of silent isolation tends to do that.

Three o'clock, and the hunt has become easier.

Frozen feet and fingers mean nothing,

They scream with protest, but cannot be heard.

In my own personal universe, at one with my surroundings,

My breath clouds, and I can sit forever in serenity.

Seven o'clock, time to leave.

Just as I prepare for the journey back to camp,

The focus of the day's work bounds through the wood.

His head a glorious crown of natural beauty,

And then he is gone, in an instant of disillusionment.

I leave the Blind.