Only the Fight

The bushbuck did not feel the crosshairs on his shoulder. He did not think about his future as he came to water in the tumbledown creek. Nor did he seem to notice the twisted wire, the snare around his neck. The shackles of his past. He had battled packs of dogs, lynx and leopard. His sinister horns, like spirals with sharp edges, twisting menacingly towards the sky, had some how found their way through a trap, the metal noose slipping over his head and tightening around muscle, bone, jugular, and esophagus. He was magnificent, and scarred.

The mature buck, enraged, had battled his invisible captor, straining against the tension, the unseen restraint. The snare dug into the strong neck muscles like a cruel saw, but still he fought, summoning all his primordial wildness and resisting this fate, this sudden oppression, this entrapment. Violently he refused this destiny, knowing nothing of his potential death, knowing only his anger, knowing only the fight. His rage unabated after hours, but tiring, he gave a great shake of his head finally pushing the tensile strength of his noose to the limit, snapping the tether line.

He did not contemplate his victory. He did not immediately rest. He lowered his curved dagger-like horns briefly towards the snapped tether wire, now wearing the necklace shackle embedded slightly under his skin. He walked away.

Over time his wounds healed on his neck, yet still he wore his cruel cravat. As more days passed the skin grew over the wire. He continued to court his females, he continued to turn his rage toward all challengers.

He came down the side of an embankment to drink, lithely and stealthily, both slow and quick. He stopped briefly and felt a searing hammer strike him, knocking him to the earth. Again he was pinned, this time by lead and not steel. The more he fought, the more his life pumped out of him and spilled onto the dust of the bush veldt. Again he shook his head violently, hoping to slash and pierce this new unseen captor. Quickly he tired, his long horns making a neat and perfect arc in the fine soil.

The unseen, the unknown had invaded his home, had stolen into his sanctuary and burst his heart. He blinked once more, his head and body, though grounded, still in combat posture. He knew nothing of his death, or after. He knew only his anger, until the last embers of his warring were extinguished. Until the end, he know only the fight.