The Hunt

Last night I dreamt you cut your hair, your short cropped head hidden beneath a hood and a shadow where you stood. I followed an undone yarn with flecks of auburn and gold only to look up to see you in a meadow. I suppose this is where I started. It took me a moment to remember that I had been afraid of losing my way back. My hand is still holding tightly to the cord, such a fear of letting go. I turn back to see it falling apart and blow away. Now small rings of yellow curls clutched in my palm are my only souvenir of who you were when I left.

It’s been a year of long hunts, the constant scent on the air and trails gone cold. I’ve staked no claims, found no fortune. I am tired of looking for prey and shelter. My body is groaning for a respite. The incessant searches and failed conquests took more than they gave, and yet somehow so did I. I stood for hours in the shallows by the aching river only to release everything I had caught. I fell asleep to fire and an empty stomach. I grew lean, learned to speak myself sane from time to time and tried to forget about the cord that I had lain to lead me back.

Now that I’m back I seem feral among the people and the small town. However declawed and broken of instinct I become there is still that sudden impulse of flight (even though not acted upon) that I have become accustomed. So what am I doing here dressed as a man, groomed and tamed beyond my own sights recognition? Why do you before all others, troubled and dismayed in many ways, appear in my dreams? How do you awaken such tired longing even after I have left the wilderness? How does your presence cause loneliness that far surpasses my old nights spent on watch along the edge of the territory? I was never more alone than when you are near, never more attune to danger than when you are not.

So I retreat back to the edge, where the wood and city limits meet to gaze out at the buildings from the safety and comfort of the shade. So why do you now appear before me with your hair gone as if in mourning? Why come to my camp if I cannot sit beside you just simply to share the time. How many times will your eyes widen and your steps move backward as I raise my hand to touch you? How is it that no traps have been set, no bait set for lure, and still you eye me cautiously? What hunter roamed these woods before I came to rest, so that you should be as skittish as a fawn set in sights? What famine or plague came over the terrain to leave you an orphan, a last of your kind?

Perhaps we met each other at the wrong time. I have lost all fear of paths diverging while you venture to the fork and turn back, only to glance at me from the trail as If I am a pleasant picture that would be ruined with you in the frame. I think I’ll stay here for awhile. I think I’ll tend the ground to learn patience. I think I’ll build a home that is more than a roof so I can have a door to prop open and lights to keep on. I think I’ll worry less and keep an eye out for travelers. I think I’ll pray more and ask my Father to send ravens to bring me food. I think I’ll forget about glances from the road beside and slowly ventured advances. I think I’ll write more so I can look back at where I was without a cord that falls apart. I think I’ll put that bit of hair I found between the cover and pages of the book I wrote so that I can remember that I like it here.