Rooting in the dirt
Warm bursts of air from the snout
Large yet docile.

The sky was clear; the sun peeked over the mountains in the distance. I laid in the dry grass with my bow and arrow in hand. The morning wind blew through the blades, tickling my cheeks. I crawled on the dry ground, heading for an oak. I leaned against it, breathing in the fresh, crisp air, and then I heard it. I stood stiff and still. The snorting continued and hooves beat upon the earth. I took inventory of the herd: one boar and several plump sows, the prize of the early morning escapade. Their heavy breaths echoed throughout the canyon. I delicately took the first step into the brittle grass, praying no sound was made. The pigs were unmoved, rooting beneath a black walnut tree for breakfast.

I shimmied over to a boulder and looked for a vantage point on which I could be down-wind from their acute sense of smell. I inched up the rock, clinging onto ridges and indentations. I looked for a hand-hold only to see the nearest one was two feet from my current hold. I got good footing and pushed off, missing the target. I slipped down, slicing my knee open, wincing in the pain to avoid speaking out. Before I looked up I knew that I had lost the game. I peered around the boulder and saw the pigs. Their snouts were upturned, stalk-still, smelling the air, ears perked up. The boar began to back away, but the sows remained, testing one more time. Contented with their findings, the sows continued digging in the soil. I took a deep breath of relief and began to climb again. I looked down at my knee, the searing pain running throughout my leg. Blood seeped from the wound, but I ignored it, moving on.

This time I made the distance from the first hold to the next without losing traction. I came to the peak of the rock slab and reached behind me into the quiver; slowly pulled out an arrow, and closely watched a sow forty yards away. I loaded the arrow into the bow and focused on the lung. Three piglets squealed and romped around another nearby sow. I brought my attention back to the prey, steadily pulling the bow taut. I released my grip and the whiz of the arrow shot forward. It hit the sow squarely in the lung. The herd went running, tails high, for the hills. I ascended the rock with great speed, sprinting to the sow. It breathed tiredly, a puddle of blood seeping from its agape mouth. I slit its throat with my knife and removed the arrow carefully. After removing the warm innards, I sliced the carcass from the throat to the hind legs, and heaved it onto my back. Flies buzzed, yet I did not swat; I had already killed enough for one day.