He has her in his sights, the hunter does–
His rifle to his shoulder, the scent of oil tickling his nose.
He adjusts his aim.
In the scope, he sees her feet
Touching the water–
Hooves on sand, a caress of ripples of liquid on a dainty toe.
She does not move to drink.
His eyes move to her dainty neck, to her delicate ears.
She turns her head, and for a moment,
He almost puts his gun down.
For a second he could almost say
That her eyes blinded him.
He could not shoot her where she stood
For the moon was in her eyes–
The new moon, in the darkness of the night,
Deeper than the pool she was on the verge of stepping into.
He breathes through his nose, steadying his hands,
His shoulder,
His heart.
His finger tenses on the trigger.

-For a friend, who found the pursuit of the moon in all its phases a worthwhile endeavor, and has decided, perhaps, to take a shot at an asteroid instead.

*akda ni Ivy Jean Vibar.


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