The Hunter
The evening shadows
move through the branches to the top.
All through the winters' night
the cold white crystals fall,
they seldom stop.
No rest on upper branch
or lower limb you see.
but gently fall
from limb to limb
to plant themselves on me.
And there they grow,
and others come to rest
on cap and boot
and upturned coat
till all in white i'm dressed.
And not a bird or beast
within the wood
could see or hear
so still there in the snow
beside the tree I stood.
But now it's time to go!
I'd watched old sol up in the sky
till winter's darkness
drowned his bright red face;
I'd stood and watched him die.
Now, walking from the wood,
with only moon's pale light to see.
The crisp chill sound
of winter's booted feet
speak mockingly to me.
For I must go!
Return to life's dull roll.
The dumb things of the wood
I leave behind
all pity me I know!
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