The morning mist moves stealthily through the forest glen
Bringing moisture to every den
The doe and her fawn huddle close to preserve their zen
Hidden far from the world of men
The hunter arises early with eager anticipation
An age-old tradition of human predation
A memory of youthful vacation
Past bonding of a father-son relation
What will happen this fine spring day
Will paths cross in the misty grey
Will tragedy and victory combine in some fateful way
In which direction will fortunes sway
In the silent setting, a shot rang out
The father was late with his warning shout
There was no antler above the gentle snout
Thank god, his son missed in his initial bout
This was not the hunter’s dream
Not the experience he wanted to share
It was so close to be an anguished scream
The hunter muttered a silent prayer