The sounds of an autumn forest, the chirping of the birds,
The swaying of the leaves, The crackling leaves and sticks
On the soft dirt ground. The smells of the crisp autumn air,
Even a few deer calmly sipping at a lake. It all joins together
To create an image, a tranquil scene. Everything in its place.

But in comes the hunters with guns loaded, blood in their eyes
As they take aim, they instead fill the air with a smell
The scent of lead bullets and smoke and blood overwhelms
The sound of pops and thuds as the landscape slowly ruins
Nothing but corpses and hunters left.

They pack up their game and leave, the scene still a mess
They’ve got what they wanted, so why should it matter
If the forest sustains damage, they wouldn’t care.
Sometimes people can be hunters to others’ forests
Coming in, disrupting the harmony for their own benefit
And Leaving the scene one of discord.