The Hunter's Children Cry

He walked amid the woodlands muted morn. The scents of earth were wafting on the breeze. For dawn had moistened yet another day. And silence dripped beneath the autumn trees. A rustle in dry leaves, he caught a glimpse. His gun caressed the warmth of flannel sleeves. The silent hunter, stalking, tiptoed near. A golden-red meandered through the leaves. The sun began to rise above the knoll. It shone upon dark eyes; the gun rose high. The pheasant flickered leaves; then, heard a crunch. He recognized the scent; the man walked nigh. Red feathers, brightly accented with gold, Were ruffled as he took his fighting pose. The cockerel next to man had no defense. So, high above the trees the pheasant rose! His hungry children waited back at home. He rushed along the trail up to the crest. The pheasant lost from view; his stomach growled. The hunter and his gun had done their best. At noon, the hunter rested on a log. The water in his canteen, nearly dry, No morsel did he eat as day grew long. The stealthy man could hear his children’s cry. December 1, 2014 Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry) - Poetry Contest Sponsor Giorgio A. V.