text: The wind had killed autumn. It always started that way, cutting the leaves from the trees to fall and dry on the ground. Then came the frost, to turn the world grey. Last came the snow. The huntsman moves through pine and birch and shallow snow towards the clearing ahead, the wind covering any noise he may have made. At its edge, he lowers himself onto the ground. The cold seeps through his jacket. Across the clearing, the rabbit hears nothing. He hefts his rifle - dark wood, steel - into the firing position. The safety softly clicks as he flicks it off. Finger moves to the trigger, and sits there lightly, waiting. His world is now constrained to what he can see through the rifle’s sights. The rabbit hops to another patch of dry grass. The huntsman adjusts, settling his aim onto the rabbit again. Breathes in, then softly out, begins to squeeze- \-the snow near the rabbit erupts, a blur of motion and a shape falls upon the rabbit. Strong jaws and sharp teeth crush its neck. A fox. Deep red fur. The huntsman pauses, then sights in on the fox. The rifle speaks \- Eyes. Brown, no hazel. Soft, kind eyes. They stand together and kiss under the shadow of the bus. Her lips are soft. He can taste salt. He doesn’t understand- \- There she is, across the road. He’d walked into town in the early morning, when the birds were still singing from the branches of silver trees touched with gold, to sell the deer slung over his shoulder. She’d just stepped out of the bakery wearing a sky blue apron, dusted with flour. Seeing him, she shoots him a little smile. Hazel eyes. He’s staring and something in him aches- He quickly turns away down the street. He wants to run. \- A mound of dirt and a headstone sits beneath the old oak tree, twisting on a hill behind the cabin. He lays down next to it, onto the dry leaves. His feet extend beyond the edge of the mound. He is taller. The wind sings soft through the branches above, taking the last of the leaves and carrying them to the woods below. \- There is a song he remembers, sitting in the back of his mind. He hums it as he walks and he smiles. His rifle is slung over his shoulder as he crunches his way up the path towards the hill. Hoar frost covers everything the snow has failed to touch. Everything is like glass. He knows this is the last time he can go out this season. He keeps humming. It’s an old song, for him. The rifle stock gently bumps against him in time with his steps. The wind keeps singing through the trees. \- Now it tears and saws, back and forth, opening a hole ever wider, and the other’s hand has fallen away but the knife still cuts, back and forth and red warmth washes over his hands - \- Oh god. Cradled in his arms, his burden was beginning to cool as he carried it up the hill towards the oak tree. He begins to claw a hole in the dirt beneath it. His hands bleed, but he can’t feel it. He picks up the small bundle and gently lowers it into the hole he has made. His eyes sting. He tries to stand, but for a while he can’t, sobbing into the cold wind. He scrapes the dirt back into the hole, covering the bundle’s red fur. Finding his feet, he stands beneath the tree, unmoving, breathing in time to the wind cutting through the branches, swaying slightly as one who has roots in the earth. Then he severs them. Going to the cabin at the bottom of the hill, he takes his pack and fills it with clothes, a pencil, a notepad and his books. He steps out the door, closing it behind him. He leaves the cabin, the hill, the oak tree and the forest. He walks into town and stands across the road from the bakery, and waits. The hazel eyed girl steps out and sees him. She smiles again at him slightly. He takes a breath, and crosses the road.