Somewhere fevered and curled about itself in the dew chill rests your quarry, its breaths with the fog. The far bank still but for the play of the wind. You'll see it with these lenses—something tawny in the evergreen. Smell the saps in the crisp air. Sitka, sequoia.
Your quarry will fight, but not well. It'll trick, perhaps well. You'll kill it with this blade and its hot blood will run over your steady hands and soak the hilt and its flesh will pull and fold around the dull edges. More tearing than cutting; sawing than stabbing. The noises it'll make.
Heavy to drag but easy to cook. Your quarry is quick to take a smoky flavor and with few diseases to heat out. You'll start a meal fire with this flame and in the warmth think about the bubbling fat and its newness to the forest as other beasts gather with curious tongues and wonder.
Before you sent your quarry into the hunting grounds, it asked you questions you truly couldn't answer and pleaded with you and caught its nails on your clothing and wept about its family or itself. It vomited black and in the puddle of its vomit you saw the reflection of a sky and the pines into it. Borborygmus.