Dripping Moon

The moon dripped like wax through the canopy of the pines, light and shadow were scattered across the ground like playing cards. The air was still, the scent of danger there but difficult to locate, yet the nostrils still twitched in mistrust. In knowing that this is their time, time to forage, snout and graze this fertile floor, it is also realized that this is the hour of the hunter, he who walks with feet shod in death. In the absence of scent sound is the ally the startled bird a friend and the passing cloud a closet in which to hide. Cloven feet tread the fern, in this tranquillity all is fostering, caring, the procedure of life has no pace but always achieves its aim, natural progression achieved by time and adaptation, little gained by the ever presence of man, more so the rigid adaptability to the elements given. Yes I walk the forest at night, not with rifle or bow, but with my dogs, dreams and respect.