Change of Heart

More of Our Canada - - Writer's Block - Ken Thomp­son, Kelowna, B. C.

The for­est silent, dank and dim in early light of day, The drift­ing fog en­velop­ing, the rocks and brush and trees. The calm of morn­ing bro­ken by the song of thrush and jay, No beauty known of sight or sound, can e’er com­pare with these. I stand and watch, I’m on the hunt, an in­ter­loper, I, I’m not at one with habi­tants of crag and thicket dense. I came not to ap­pre­ci­ate Dame Na­ture’s earth and sky, But to reap in­stead the crea­tures shel­tered ‘hind the for­est fence. And sud­denly he then ap­peared, with noble antlered head, The ob­ject of my quest at last there cen­tred in my scope. A trig­ger squeeze, a rack­ing shot, my quarry would lie still and dead, Ma­jes­tic he but like the rest would die with­out a hope. But wait, I see no fear in him, no flinch­ing of the eye, ‘Tis ever thus with roy­alty, with courage face the foe. As if his thoughts were sent to me, “I’m not afraid to die.“My ri­fle low­ered then I stood and watched him stately go. So now I’m home again and there my gun is on the shelf, At times I sit re­mem­ber­ing what passed be­tween us then. No tro­phy hangs, it mat­ters not, I’ve peace within my­self And so per­haps be­cause of this I just may never hunt again.

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