He tracks his prey along the deer paths of the forest,
learning their habits, consuming their scent.
He will creep and crawl and slither along the floor of the woods, and
even the snakes will bow their heads. It
is time for the blood, and every animal feels it. The peace and plenty of early summer, the heat
of the dog days when Sirius rose high in the night sky, and the gluttony of early
autumn now give way to the reckoning. No
debt in the world ever goes unpaid.
Every bit, every morsel, every drop of water is extracted
in payment now. The herd offers its
sacrifice, and the hunter accepts his portion.
Balance is critical and crucial, and those who stay within its
boundaries live life on their own terms and die in dignity. Most of modern mankind, however, has
forgotten this, but the debt continues to mount. Restitution is inevitable for the masses, yet
the hunter does not concern himself with this.
He does not cast his pearls before swine.
But he, too, amasses obligation and will make restitution
soon enough. The Hunter’s Moon of
October will give way to the Snow Moon of November, when the hunter becomes the
hunted. The Lord of Winter advances in
leagues now. The hunter will resist to
the end, which is always nearer than he supposes. Sunt lacrimae rerum.
