A copper streak across a field of white, like fireworks in the snow,
mischief gleaming in liquid brown eyes, bounding to and fro.

Then catching sight of fleeing prey, he’s off to pursue the chase,
This is what nature intended for the tireless hunter with liquid grace.

Oh, the thrill it gives me to watch the hunt as if I, too, have spread my wings,
Watching the ground pass beneath him, I’m sure I can hear his heart sing.

~**~

The years have grayed his muzzle now and age has slowed his stride,
But he still gives chase on good days, it’s a matter of desire and pride.

On those days his body fails him, he stretches out and stifles his cries,
and he keeps up the chase as he envisions the hunt through the gaze of those liquid brown eyes.

To see my mighty hunter thus, my heart is nearly shattered and torn,|
Oh, but how is it that he’s more beautiful to me now than on that very first winter morn?

~Claudia Nix

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