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February 20, 2007
The white stag, alone, darting the pursuit of the hunting party, slipped away in the shadows of the glade. A quiet arrow snapped his hide and still he pounded on - full force, uphill, and dancing side to side. His blood poured out, leaving a trail. Yet, he remained within his strength and fled, fled, fled, until his heart thrust, thrust, thrust so that he stopped. The stag stood for a breath in a clearing at dusk. The boy with golden hair, the one whose quiet shot rang so clear, stared into the stag’s grey eyes and let another loose.