The Hunt Poem by Thomas McKelvey

The little red fox froze, momentarily distracted. Her ears, perched precariously forward, twitched incessantly, straining for the faintest sound. She padded softly across the granular forest floor, a mosaic of snow and moss. Her eyes darted around like a hummingbird flitting between blossoms before she nervously trotted into the icy fog. It snaked down the mountainside, swirling around the trees like a ghostly river. Each footstep was a fading whisper, an echo of the one before, leaving a trail of shallow paw prints that vanished in the thawing earth.

Ahead, in a clearing bathed in pale sunlight, a herd of reindeer grazed. Their patchy coats steamed in the crisp air, their musty scent filling the fox's nostrils. It was a scene of sublime chaos as the herd shifted, hooves snapping like twigs on a frosty morning. The fox, unseen at the edge of the forest, felt a pang of excitement followed by a prickle of unease. The scent she craved, a familiar melody on the wind, had led her here, but now it was faint, almost lost.

Doubt gnawed at her. Should she press on or retrace her steps? She stood for a moment, panting, her tongue lolling out in a silent plea for a stronger signal. Then, a gust of wind carried the scent, strong and unmistakable. Relief flooded her, and with it, a surge of primal instinct.

She moved with the grace of a seasoned hunter, weaving through a maze of fallen branches that snapped and crackled ever so softly. Deeper into the woods, she slowed, a predator attuned to the symphony of the forest floor. She sniffed the air, tasting it with her tongue, searching for the familiar song to resume. Strong, then weak, then strong again, the scent played a teasing game.

There! A flash of red fur beneath a towering pine. Her mate, his coat the color of ripe cranberries, stood watching her approach. His tail wagged, a playful grin splitting his face. His high-pitched howls were a joyful serenade. With a joyous yelp, the fox launched herself into his presence. A flurry of playful nips and chases ensued, a reunion as warm and familiar as the setting sun.

This is the forest I know, a tapestry woven with survival and love. We all hunt in our own way, for connection, for purpose, for a place to belong. We face moments of doubt, chase after fleeting dreams, and sometimes, the greatest discoveries lie within ourselves, even when the hunt doesn't end with a mate at our side. But the thrill of the chase, the yearning for connection, that's a universal language, spoken by leaping hearts and yearning spirits, like foxes in the fading light.