Evening twilight announced the coming hunt, the old hunter prepared for the long night. His young boys were excited, his hounds were eager for the chase.
The old truck creaked and rattled, the ride to the woods was not long before the hunt was underway. The old trail dog was now out front, alone, searching for the faint trace of prey.
The race was never meant to end in blood, the cry of the hounds was the hunter's joy. Like the starry-decked heavens, the voice of every dog would soon fill the night air.
The race was about to begin, the old trail dog now sounding the clarion call. The prey, the cunning fox, familiar with the old dog, listened too, knowing his search for food would have to wait.
The old hunter relied on instinct. He could sense the prey was on the run. His craft was not learned from books, but secretly passed, generation to generation. His dogs, straining to join the race, were let loose. The singular clarion call of the old trail dog was now a chorus of new voices. The old hunter, horn to ear, cried out -- "Listen boys, I hear the hounds!"
Flashes of light appeared through the trees, more hunters and hounds arriving to join the race. Like lost brothers, the hunters greeted each other with firm grips and low whispers. Like the old trail dog, the old hunter pointed the way.
All of the hunters now waited, knowing a rhythm would soon take over. The prey made the long run, and then turned. The ebb and flow of the race began. All knew the game, it had been played many times before.
The hunters relaxed now, comfortable with fire, warm drink, and each other. All listened intently, each distant voice known by hook, chop, or long bay. Satisfaction filled the air. The vices and superfluities of life retreated for a while.
The young boys tried to listen, but play drew them away. The fire, the burning taper, was their ancient friend. They couldn't leave its side. The old hunter knew this too would change with time.
The night drew on, the faint hearted, both hounds and hunters began to fade. The fire began to fade. The young boys slept. The race went on.
The dark of the night was now upon them, the moon governed no more. The prey began to tire, knowing the race would soon be over. The hunters started calling forth, name by name, as the hounds began giving up the chase.
The final bay was made, the prey paused to listen, and the race was over. The pursued and the pursuers would rest, knowing another night awaited them.
The hunters, quitting their sacred retreat, were ready to mix again with the world. The old hunter put away his horn. The rising sun began to rule the new day.
Evening fox races were special, almost magical. What would I give to be there one more time with my Dad and Brother.
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