The arrow strung, he slips into the bushes, Slithering behind trees and stones Making not a sound Until his prey stands before him, Hobbling along, One limb bent awkwardly, Pain in its deep brown eyes But mercy is not his to own He raises the bow, swiftly the arrow flies And with a groan embeds itself In the bristly hide of the old deer Swept up with the wind, away the spirit flies, Abandoning the cold body below He, satisfied, ends the hunt with an oath To his cold pagan gods.