The Hunter

The Hunter

She watches the deer on the far hill, a veldt of russet stems, rigid, upright in the turgid mist.

Shadows steal and congeal, then scatter, no match for the ponderous assault to come.

He stalks, skimming low, washes of still weak dawn stealing along the ridge, silent, airless.

She thrills as the arrow cocks, tendons pop, shoulder strains, quivering, eager.

He pivots, frowns, intent, so close, eases back, sighs the release.

She spins, startled, a hiss, a whimper, a heartbeat, gone.


About Nya Rawlyns

Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true. Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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