The Hunter Poem by Gert Strydom

With a bow in his hand
the hunter sneaks
above the wind,
following the tracts
of the wild antelope.

His brown skin
melts into the field
and the bushes,
and like a wild cat
he sneaks
from cover to cover.

The sun is hot
where it hangs in the half-Kalahari sky
and he drinks a tiny bit of water
out of the ostrich egg flask,
before a brown hand
with caked sand
wipes sweat out of his dark brown eyes.

Again he takes the trail
and follows it at a jog
until the oryxes are closer
and again he sneaks nearer
and stalks still closer.

When he is in striking distance
an arrow is taken from the quiver
and the small bow’s string
made out of roped intestines draws
and for a moment,
it sounds like the buzz of a bee
while the arrow
rushes away from the bow.

The arrow hits the antelope
and when the startled oryx
rushes away
the hunter follows
faithful on the spoor,
till he finds it
where in time
it lies stretched out
on the red brown Africa sand.