The Hunter and the Walker

(For my brother, and for the forest that holds us both)

by P. Glenn

We are alike, my brother and I - born of the same land, yet we move through it in different ways. He enters the forest to harvest. I enter to receive. One seeks through stillness, the other through silence. This reflection honors those differences, and the deeper unity they reveal.

We are alike, you and I -
born of the same dirt,
taught by the same trees,
raised in the echo of river and ridge.

And yet, we walk differently.

You slip through the forest
like a breath the wind forgot.
You listen for movement,
for the subtle song of rustled leaves
that says, “He is near.”

You harvest with reverence -
not for sport, but for the old hunger,
the sacred exchange of life for life.

You disappear into the green.
You become part of the hush.

I, too, enter the woods.
But I don’t blend - I arrive.

I walk the path open,
feet loud on old leaves,
fingers brushing stone and stem.

I don’t seek to take -
only to receive.

The whisper you track,
I hear in stillness.
The breath you hold,
I exhale in awe.

I don’t fish, but I know the pull.
I don’t hunt, but I know the wait.
I walk without camouflage,
but the forest knows me still.

You crouch in patience.
I pause in prayer.

Different gestures.
Same belonging.

And when I sit beneath the canopy,
coffee warm in hand,
birdsong overhead like liturgy -
I hope we’re one there.

For though I don’t follow your path,
I honor your steps.

The hunter and the walker -
both welcomed by the woods.
Both known by the land.
Both home.