These are the hunter’s children,

crouched down in tall grass,

creeping closer and closer,

in the late afternoon’s gray light,

toward the deer herd

that nibbles on the fresh green stalks

at the edge of the forest.

 

Their voices are unnaturally low,

their stealth exaggerated,

as they grip invisible rifles,

move in tandem

like some army reconnaissance team,

while their leader,

the oldest of them,

pokes his head up from time to time

to gauge the distance to their prey.

 

When close enough to read

the markings on a stag’s rump,

that lead boy lets out a loud ‘Bang!”

and the herd panic, scatter,

dart back into the woods.

“Got a big male!” he shouts.

The others leap out from their cover,

fire away at the retreating tails and legs.

Each of them, even the littlest,

claims a kill.

 

On their way home,

in the chill of an October twilight,

they hear, in the distance,

that distinct sharp, loud crack,

ominous echoing, of real rifle fire.

That magnificent stag

is slain, not once, but twice.