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Twilight watches through the black branches that stand like hairs on the back of my neck. It’s a knowing stare that can’t bear the fall of its own, but must see out the brutal cycle I have commenced and will finish with blood on the forest’s floor. She flees like a gadget, I follow like a ghost. Something rustles in the ridge. I sidestep down, gently sliding with control over the dry dirt and rocks. When the rustling stops, so do I, fixing a boot into the cuts of a tree root, linking minds with my target, sharing a moment of silence in the great game of life and death I play so unfairly and so well. She can smell me, my clothes, my skin. I can smell only the fear in the leaves and rocks around her that will catch her heavy fall when I pull the cold trigger. [Pete Bradt] |
