The air is frosted with a scent of wet fall leaves, the darkness a rich abyss of espresso as we enter the forest of deer.

A mist from the swamp thickens as our headlamps cut through it.

My son passes me thinking I've lost the trail, he becomes the pathfinder, a smile appears on my face in the darkness, I'm happy.

Our steps are synchronized, as the steam from our breath becomes part of the mist.

We cross the stream and reach my stand, now we separate wishing each other Good Hunt, may our arrows be true.

I wait and watch his headlamp gently dim through the dense forest. I contemplate the gift I'm experiencing.

I climb my stand, pull up my gear and settle in ancient weapon in hand truth in my heart all expectations gone.

Time passes and dawn breaks, birds feed, sunlight sweeps away the fog. I hear my son call for deer.

Hours pass, minds clear, time ceases.
You envision what you pursue,
the forest becomes your breath as you wait for your quarry.

As what some call barbarous an unnecessary endeavor in this day of supermarkets, internet and smart phones, lest we forget from which we came, I prefer the meditation of which I partake in and revel in its ability to keep me connected to the soul of the world with reverence and respect >>>====>

Nicholas Finocchio