The Hunted?

Lo, the wind blows soft and free,
Gently whistling through the trees.
The sky is dark, the stars are out,
A full moon casting shadows about.

The fresh, new snow lay crisp on the ground,
There is no movement, not a sound.

Yonder stands a bob-tailed deer,
Without a thought or fear.
But this soon changes, a hunter nears,
His stomach hungers seeing the deer.

The hunter takes his rifle bounding,
His pulse running, his heart pounding.
He aims and pulls the trigger quickly,
A shot rings out so very sickly.

And yonder stands a bob-tailed deer,
Without a thought or fear.

Lo, the wind blows soft and free,
Gently whistling through the trees.

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