The hunters and farmhands know our pattern well:
The crack of branches beneath the snow,
Shadows slipping across icy pines,
the wind howling down the field, and
breaking upon the treeline.
We go, a cautious approach, and then
A deathly moment – Is there a smell
on the wind? A change
In the light? Do tails flick
For reason, or for habit?
This is the moment-
The sights lined up with our hearts-
The moment where we decide