She walked in the forest all alone with her thoughts,
There rang out with small echos a series of shots,
And she fell. Like a spirited doe, she rose, and moved deep
Through snow laden branches, seeking cover and sleep.
My beautiful lady, her smile still sublime,
Grazed by a bullet, the hunter was time.
The sun wakes the morning, the skies warm and bright,
Hand in hand with my lady, we walk from the night.
Snowbirds above us fly shimmering waves,
A fox searches fields for the breakfast it craves.
Our world is still turning, His Hand has reached down,
The hunter still lurking, but we're nowhere around.
-- Gordon William Bain, February 8th, 2009
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