When hunting, I think about the nature
of waiting, how much of my life
is taken by it. How here in the woods
to wait is to hunt and even moving
holds a cautious movement as the ground
holds fallen leaf covered trees, grapevines,
branches, rocks. Every step a careful waltz
putting me nowhere but where I am.
How if deer appear or not, the sensation
of being where I am is a sacrament.
It enters the blood, that sense of the wild
where now is an eternity and a dance. Now
split like a piece of wood revealing the nature
of the grain, which way it goes, how to go with it.

hootism: distance should be a four-letter word.