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!