The Hunt

Snow freshly fallen On gentle mountains. The noon sun bright In skies so cloudless. Across the moor Trees rise high. Soft winds entice Aspens to sigh. Silent is nature In cold Tahoe; The sacred place Of tribe Washoe. The forest is quiet For nature slumbers. In caves and dens Natural chambers. Men begin tradition, Being up and active. Going through beds Of natures inactive. Fearless they are Playing in the fields. Where nature sleeps And the land shields. Just like children These men love to play. But the difference These men love to prey. Shots so loud The earth shakes. Men stomp around But nothing awakes. Those who sleep Had no chance. Again man has won It shows, in his stance. This act of disturbance In the resting season, Hunting and sporting To God, it's treason. Once pure white, Now stained red. Once virgin snow Now memorial for dead. Please comment, I'd like to hear what people think.