Here I hide all alone, clenched tight with fear
in a dark little box, nothing to see
My situation's reasoning is indeed quite queer
A hunter is searching ruthlessly
My hunter is my friend, who I held quite dear
Her betrayal is as difficult as can be
I did not make a sound that she could hear
But my hunter spotted me visually
She looked down at me, her face looked sincere
For now the person who's "It" is me

Chapter Eight

WHEN DAWN CREPT OUT OF NIGHT’S ROBES, SO DID IRIS. She crawled out of her tent and looked about the camp. All of them were sleeping. She turned and watched the slumbering Bear and noticed that the new one was missing. Maybe Stilicho sent him out to hunt, Iris thought. She slung her satchel over shoulder, tightened the laces on her otter furred boots and snuck her way into the depths of the forest.

I usually go hunting in the woods. I run through the white-picket fence that is in my backyard. I have my pure wooden bow in my right hand. It is made I out of red oak tree.
I wear black rubber boots just in case there is a thunderstorm and black and brown colors for camouflage. Birds chirp and salmon jump in and out of the clear, blue water, trying to swim upstream. I finally spot a red squirrel, but it quickly runs up a tree. I grunt, throw the bow over my shoulder, and start climbing the huge tree.

Running, panting, barely breathing,
Sprinting up the lonely trail.
Wond'ring if, that by its fleeing,
It succeeds, or will it fail?
Never falt'ring, never wav'ring,
Quick the hunted deer does sail
O'er the logs like darkness fleeting
Through the meadow and the vale.

Lazy-leafed sentinels
Looked down to see a solitary shape
Staring ahead intently while brown ghosts
Melted by on either side
And, laughing
Moved on