First Light

I taught my son to hunt
And he is taking to it quickly.
The prey is unidentified,
At least specifically.
His breathing’s imperceptible;
His thoughts, equally so.
His fingertips pull softly on
The tail-end of the arrow.

The temper-tempered medium
Reflects the summer’s light.
With one eye still unopened,
(Is it confidence? Or bright?)
The boy exerts primality
From lung and diaphragm.
And takes a bite of sandwich;
Hazelnut. Raspberry jam.

The sun is rising quickly,
And the weapon has been spent.
The trail was cold before he’d
Even thought which way it went.
But the trophy didn’t matter,
For the act was dignifying.
If I said I wasn’t proud,
I’d be “Correct” but I’d be lying.