Firefly Glen Hanto

So the Montanari son entered his fourth winter without much fanfare, and with plenty to repent for. Even the prey here seemed to notice, taking it upon themselves to thwart and mock this red-handed newcomer. His whiskers trembled, indignant, as a rabbit sprung out of his reach and vanished into the undergrowth. Per carità!

It was true he had never liked hunting; he had never appreciated the chase. Not due to any physical shortcomings but because of his inability to leap to the killing blow with any consistency. He told himself it was a psychological barrier.

In the end, he managed to catch a rabbit - as sick and frail as it was - and avoided looking into its rheumy eyes. He hunkered down among the brambles, away from the cold, unaware he had just trodden into another hunter's sightline.