A hunting horn sounds. A mournful tone. The slow considered stalking of the prey, prey that lays already motionless, dead on the ground.
Anointing sweating brow. A raised heart beat. A rite of passage from the distant past. But now the urgency has gone, the necessity has faded with time.
This age old narrative, played out has become a myth, a fairytale. No longer fact, no longer vital, no longer real. Ornamental blood is spilled. Romancing an idea, a misty eyed perspective.
This is a strange hunter. One who announces its presence, one confident of its absolute power. One who delights in a dance, in a ritual, in a role, playing and toying; this is not about survival this is about dominance.
Photos courtesy of Pernille Spence