In November of 2013 I took a new huntress on her first hunt. A freak snowstorm swept into Vermont that weekend, and temperatures plummeted into the single digits as we slept in our little dome tent. The next day we waded through the snow carrying my .30-.30 rifle, entranced by the fresh tracks that crisscrossed the 80 acre parcel of forest in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom. We didn't see any deer that weekend, but I harvested a poem from the experience of watching this woman hunt for the first time:
Hunting in the Northeast Kingdom
She wears the white of fresh snow around her neck
The black of midnight next to her skin
Hart's blood stains her sweater scarlet
Dark eyes sharply scan the snow
Her heart is a .30-.30
Bullets of desire that always hit their mark
She follows the tracks down the ravine
Strong and certain
She claims what is already hers
Twilight falls, the Golden Hour
Blood and hair stain the snow
She feasts upon the bones of winter
Hunting in the Northeast Kingdom
She wears the white of fresh snow around her neck
The black of midnight next to her skin
Hart's blood stains her sweater scarlet
Dark eyes sharply scan the snow
Her heart is a .30-.30
Bullets of desire that always hit their mark
She follows the tracks down the ravine
Strong and certain
She claims what is already hers
Twilight falls, the Golden Hour
Blood and hair stain the snow
She feasts upon the bones of winter
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