John

December air is a colder cold the hours before dawn.

Well suited but too cold to lay, deer are on the move.

A hunter couches in the woods also suited head to toe.

Each breath warmed inside his lungs exhaled in misty clouds.

Steely air moves down the spine, comfort interrupted and he shivers.

Silhouettes take shape resembling something they are not.

A night creature scratches into its den to sleep the day away.

Dawn is near, more frigid, as a frost settles in.

The hint of light turns indigo to gray as birds flit about, yet to sing.

Out of nowhere appears a doe and then another, wary but unaware.

The large one lifts her head, searching for unfamiliar molecules.

Mysterious darkness gives way to reassuring daylight.

The hunter cannot shake the shivers and he decides to stalk.