There is a man who comes by my home sometimes, who I don’t know how to name.I watch him wander up the road,  turning slowly into turtle, trout, boar, and many more, Forcing his way through ten traps made of wicker and lure.Crack crack crackDrowning out the crickets. Strong strides slosh through wet thicket.Hunters eyes, long arms, gentle as a deer, but no fear. Flows on by the stones, unaware....