The Hunter

He had been told to wait here.

He had been told his opportunity would come.

He was lying on the ground, behind a few rocks.

Cold sand would occasionally trickle through his shirt.

He had been told not to move.

He had been told to wait, and to search.

He could see dewdrops hanging on bristling blades of grass.

Not a sound to be heard but the wind.

He had been told patience was key.

He had been told action was key.

Sunrays were crawling along the ridges of the plain.

Temptation to draw circles in the sand.

He had been told games were over.

He had been told he was old enough to hunt.

He had been told hunger made one more precise.

Hunger would make him a better hunter.

All had nodded, so there must be some truth in it.

He had been told that sometimes to search is to wait.

That waiting was searching.

He recalled his mother's stroking his cheek.

He recalled his younger sister's look.

He had been told to wait. To watch. To seek.

He was watching. Waiting. Seeking.

Secretly wishing for nothing to come.

He had been told to hide under the wind.

He had been told not to yield,

when the time came.

Wait and search was all he could do now.

He remembered the taste of blood, the pain

they had sought out of his body.

He had been told it would strengthen his spirit.

He had been told it would make him ready.

He didn't know what to expect.

He had been told what to do.

Shown what ancestral strikes killed.

He had been told everything.

Everything he had to know.

Yet he thought all was futile.

Yet he had rather ambush the red leaves

dispersed by the late wind.

Or scout the first shards of light

nose up in the electric air after the storm.

But the tremors in the ground echoed in his chest.

Shifting somehow made sand rougher

the air grew denser

clouds greyed the dawn.

The wait had come to an end.

The search had to be rewarding.

The time had come to hunt.