The Forest Dawn Poem by Paul Barrowman

I walk the forest valley early in the dawn, thick fog surrounds me. With each step I take, my feet clean the wild grass from the ornaments of dew.

Turning, I see my bright prints overtaken by the enduring mist. The sprawling branches of the thicket pierce through the fog like the bones of wrecked vessels on uncharted shores. I walk the dampend ground to a beaten path, not made under the trampled foot of men, Here I kneel and observe. The grass and its royal crown, once adorned with diamonds is now enlayden with stones of ruby, the life blood of all.

The earth and soil has been torn, the bark of a tree striped, branches shaken and broke. I imagine the battle that took place here earlier in the dawn. I form the sentence of what took place from scattered words left as markings, tracks and blood. A life or death battle, not with sword, shield and spear but with claws, teeth and horns. The words continue scattering further up the trail, I follow suit.

Dawn has nearly fully broken but the fog persists. Shadows loom, dark and watchful under the canopy floor. I find a broken horn, split at the tyne to a point, as Sharp as a bone can be. More blood and now clumps of furr rest side by side on the plowed soil.

I walk for some distance further into the early morn forest, reading the sentances word by word as I cautiously travel.

Suddenly silence, I freeze... At the foot of a steep hill laying on its side breathing rasping desperate breaths, a mountain lion lays dieing. It's massive paws sprawled out, claws still extended cutting into the earth. Steam rises from the beasts huffing jaws and swirls into the looming mist. A dark red stain casts a shadows on its lightly colored coat. with each breath of the cats desperation for air, blood bubbles out from a fatal wound. I do not move at all, I barely breath. For a moment in time I can not even feel my body, I am as a tree, old and still ever watching the world. A breeze calmly shifts the woods and branches sway and creek. my hair shifts in the same likeness, and I remain as a tree silently observing.

A sound, a snort and a grunt. A blast of breath like dragons fire draws my eyes to the crest of the inner forests hill. I see standing Like a monument of creation an example of divine preparation, a elk tan and tall.
It's feet planted on the hills crest in victory.

It's massive antlers peak to the sky and match the trees in complexity. My thumb shifts on the surface of the broken horn in my hand. I can see the red split point on the creatures crown. He is wounded as well, crimson and scarlet stains on his hide steam in the cold morning air. The elk is the last word in the trail, leading to this moment.

He breaths heavy, arching his royal crown of bone to taste the air. He turns and looks at the false tree and our eyes banish the fog and meet.
He is still as am I, my hand is moist around the horn and my heart pounds so loud the creature must surely hear it.

We stand a long time, if time even moved at all. The sun silhouetted the animal and dawn had birthed a new light. The elk then without hesitation turned and disappeared into the thick forest.

I stood for a long while holding the broken piece of horn, starring at the elks defeated foe.