I hear his heart beating
I'm on the right path,
the sign now clear, forging on
my pack left at the staging point,
just me, my weapon
and Him.
I'd caught a glimpse accidentally,
was squatting bush style,
the paper damp from many wet days,
but the undergrowth swallowed,
and then I heard Him,
a majestic bellowing roar,
deep throated, desirous, tempting,
calling for his partners, those lucky Doe.
Calling the sound nature has called
before man took up the spear,
before cooking pots and trophy cabinets,
before religion,
no this was the base call,
the call that sends a hunters veins exploding,
the sound that tests muscle fibre
and the reflexes needed to track,
to close in for the kill without notice.
The wind blew into my face, a killer wind,
the trees sparse now as I followed the roar,
the tundra grasses and tussocks
providing little cover,
not only could He smell, He had good sight,
then the blood boiled as He was spied not 200 meters away,
cresting a hill, standing open, and roaring.
I checked my weapon of choice, the butt warm on my cheek,
the barrel extending in and out, sighting,
I looked through the viewfinder and as he bellowed again,
I shot him.
A 16 Pointer too.
It was a week worth waiting for,
the film needed careful processing, yet when it came back,
there it was, a photographic proof
of not only my skill as a photographer,
but a picture of a 16 point Wapiti stag
in the hinterland of the Fiordland National Park,
where He roams still today.
I'm on the right path,
the sign now clear, forging on
my pack left at the staging point,
just me, my weapon
and Him.
I'd caught a glimpse accidentally,
was squatting bush style,
the paper damp from many wet days,
but the undergrowth swallowed,
and then I heard Him,
a majestic bellowing roar,
deep throated, desirous, tempting,
calling for his partners, those lucky Doe.
Calling the sound nature has called
before man took up the spear,
before cooking pots and trophy cabinets,
before religion,
no this was the base call,
the call that sends a hunters veins exploding,
the sound that tests muscle fibre
and the reflexes needed to track,
to close in for the kill without notice.
The wind blew into my face, a killer wind,
the trees sparse now as I followed the roar,
the tundra grasses and tussocks
providing little cover,
not only could He smell, He had good sight,
then the blood boiled as He was spied not 200 meters away,
cresting a hill, standing open, and roaring.
I checked my weapon of choice, the butt warm on my cheek,
the barrel extending in and out, sighting,
I looked through the viewfinder and as he bellowed again,
I shot him.
A 16 Pointer too.
It was a week worth waiting for,
the film needed careful processing, yet when it came back,
there it was, a photographic proof
of not only my skill as a photographer,
but a picture of a 16 point Wapiti stag
in the hinterland of the Fiordland National Park,
where He roams still today.
