09/09/2025
It flew like a whisper, clean and true, Through morning frost and cedar dew. A buck stood broad, the wind was right— The bow sang soft, the shaft took flight. But fate, that trickster dressed in bark, had planted there a slender mark: A birch no wider than a dream, Stood grinning in the arrow’s beam. Thunk. Not hide, nor bone, nor heart— Just wood that played the hunter’s part. The buck was gone, the woods grew still, and the hunter stood laughing on the hill. He touched the tree, the arrow bent, A monument to time well spent. For every miss, each humbled try still writes a story in the sky.
