Fallen Fawn

A hunters Regret

Fallen Fawn

Beneath the reds, where shadows sweep,
A mountain stream runs clear and deep.
The morning dew on birch leaves clings
A hush befalls all living things.

His boots lay prone on mossy floor,
A practiced hand, at the art of war.
He breathes in slow, the forest still,
His eye is sharp, prepared to kill.

Through fern and fog, he sees her there
A fragile shape with dappled hair.
The fawn, so young, begins to feed,
Unknowing of his silent greed.

A breath held tight, a line once drawn,
The rifle speaks—the light is gone.
She crumples where the wild rose grows,
A splash of red on fallen snow.

He strides to claim his earned reward,
The silence held like heaven's sword.
But as he nears, the forest sways,
A weight he cannot cast away.

Her eyes still wide, not blank, but bright,
Reflect his face in fleeing light.
And in that glance, a stirring flame—
He feels her pain, her fear, her name.

It floods his soul, a shuddered cry,
The taste of death, the question: Why?
He staggers back, the gun grown cold,
His pride now tarnished, weak, and old.

The days roll on like drifting leaves,
Yet in his chest, a sorrow grieves.
He dreams of eyes like pearls of dark
The remorse he felt, now breaks his heart

No meat he takes, no trophy hung,
No tale of how the shot was sung.
Only the hush of stream and dawn,
And guilt that grows for that Fallen Fawn