As a light breeze gently rustled the last leaves of fall, the hunter crouched motionless in the brown grass, his quarry finally in sight, just across the small clearing, but…
still too far.
Choreographed by the ages, the dance had begun. A thousand years of hunting drove the hunter. A thousand years of being hunted fueled the instincts of the prey.
Stay low. One slow silent step after another, closing the distance. Place a foot carefully, then freeze… and stare. Closer now: an hour passed. Don’t blink. The sound of the wind in the leaves is deafening: can he hear my breath?
A small depression ahead in the hillside; cover for the hunter, danger for the prey. Near the slope at the far edge, nearly close enough. Under the shadow of a pine, its trunk shielding his movements, a few more steps and the time for the kill…
Suddenly shattering the stillness of the moment: “Jingles! … Dinner!”
The small gray cat stood, turned, and trotted back toward the house.
Oh well, a nice warm plate of “Fancy Feast” would taste better than that old chipmunk, anyway.
Montana Outdoors 