A Stone In the Cold 4

The thicket moves, my aim must not waver; with strengthened arms I bend my bow of yew: My eyes pierce the brush, intent to savor the sights of a good hunt, an arrow true. The bracken parts, rattling, empty sighs; My draw fingers quake from the constant chill. My quarries' breath floats to the clouded sky, my own breath muffled as I track my kill. Overhead, an arrow in deadly arc speeds toward the bear I'm seeking, still as stone; A shadow moves, the arrow strikes its mark. The hand that loosed the shaft was not my own. I am a man shadowed; death comes knocking: The hunter hunted; the past comes stalking.