He had slipped out with the intent to be gone through nightfall. He knew all the roving patrol schedules and found that he could avoid their detection in the early hours of the morning and evening.
He crawled and slid his way across the open fields, between the many compounds, until he slipped into the treeline and up the shallow hill and into the open desert. Once there, he’d begin his hunt to put extra food on their supper table during this ‘saison de quarantaine.’
In the depths of winter on that Friday morning, he found himself tracking game along an unfamiliar, but heavily used animal trail. He nocked up an arrow and sat down to wait.
Down the path, he heard the sounds of movement; the cracking of twigs, bushes and such. Assuming it was perhaps a wild boar, he drew the arrow back and held, waiting to see his target.
Something flitted between the openings in the darker underbrush. Then, like the archer he knew himself to be, he loosed his deadly arrow.
He heard the thing strike its target with a knowing thump. This was followed quickly by a scream of pain from a beast whose cry he did not recognize.
Slowly, he moved to where the animal should have fallen, another arrow already nocked up and ready, but there was nothing to be found. Then a low angry rumble began behind him, followed by the slow blink of a pair of yellow eyes glowing from inside the thick brush.
His skill, he knew, may not be enough to save him and that supper might be late, if supper came at all.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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