Across the slopes where pine meets morning mist,
A lean and silent hunter threads the stone.
Its paws drum rhythm soft, precise, and crisp,
No leaf or whisper of the wind unknown.
Each scent a map, each rustle marks the path,
Through cedar shadows and the sunlit glade.
Its keen eyes catch the world in subtle math,
The chase unfolds, yet none of it betrayed.
In quiet arcs it sweeps the mountain side,
Muscle and sinew tuned to every breath.
The forest bends beneath its measured stride,
And day unfolds its secrets unto death.