Thrill of the Hunt
"It is savage pleasure, and we are born to it".
Thomas Harris
He sat upon the boulder, calm yet tense,
The rolling savannah stretched before him
The sun began its slow descent from high
Its light now soft and scattered on the grass
The peaks beyond stood silent, cold, and dark
While shadows grew like whispers in the breeze
He watched the distance, calculating time
Aware the night would bring what day could not
The high plains held its secrets in the wind
The wildflowers swayed softly in their beds
He knew the open space gave him away
Exposed to wings and claws, to fangs and eyes
Yet still he sat, delaying his descent
Unsure if running now would serve him well
The hills, though near, still felt so far away
A journey long despite the setting sun
With trembling hands, he gripped the spear he bore
Its weight both comfort and reminder grim
The big hunt begins, he’s the only prey!
And yet the sky remained devoid of flight
A quiet settled deep upon the field,
Too still, too calm for safety to be found
His heart began to race, though he stood still
The need to run now pulsing through his veins
At last, he rose, the time for choice was now,
The forest called; its distant promise safe
His legs obeyed, though fear fought every step
Each footfall loud, as though it marked his place
The ground beneath him seemed to shift and sway
The weight of danger pressing from behind
He ran, though pain and panic slowed his pace
The shadows chasing faster than his feet
Ahead, the hills grew green, but dim with dusk
The light was fading faster than he’d thought
The birds had circled, far above his path
Their wings outstretched, their cries a warning sharp
The beasts behind him followed close and fierce
Their growls a low, unbroken, rolling threat
His breath was fire, his lungs ached with the strain
And yet he pressed, the forest drawing close
The trees stood tall, their branches thick and dark
Their shade a welcome, though it brought no rest
He stumbled through the first of many limbs
His legs near breaking from the endless run
The sounds behind him faded as he crossed
The beasts retreating, unwilling to chase
His chest still heaved, his limbs began to shake
But he had found the safety of the trees
The cave was there, its mouth a gaping maw
His people waiting deep within its walls
He fell before them, gasping for his breath
Their arms outstretched in silent, grateful awe
The hunt was over, though the scars remain
The night ahead would bring him little sleep
Yet he had crossed the meadow, faced the dark
And for another day, his life was spared
The battle won; he stood with head held high
A quiet strength beneath the trembling limbs
The forest whispered of his victory
And in its breath, he found his spirit’s peace
10-30-2024
© Vic Evora
Note that in this story, the protagonist is not the hunter. He is the hunted.
This is the story of a caveman who strayed too far from the cave, the home of his family/tribe. He forgot how late in the day it was, and now he has little time to go back before nightfall. But he has to traverse a savannah, an open field before he could reach the safety of the forested foothills, where the cave was. Exposed, he had to run from birds and beasts chasing, with only a rudimentary spear to protect him.
The poem is written in iambic pentameter and so it reads quickly and a certain beat. But it has no rhyme, to mimic old narrative poetry.
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