Giggin

Each step is like finding a wet sponge in the darkness.  Sucking mud pulls at bare feet, unafraid of catfish whiskers or cottonmouth fangs.  High beams on, scanning the cat line at waters edge.  Gleaming yellow orbs reflect back like full moons on a clear night.  Holding a set, still of hand, sliding slowly, noiselessly.  Dark green beak above a white balloon, inflating, deflating, low rumbles answered from behind, ripples push from the sonorous bellowing.  Leaning in, elbow high, thrust, pith, stuff.  Turning to find the answered call, beam sweeps the cats falling on a moccasin sluicing through the dark glassy water.  Follow it out of sight for sure.  Easy to find, cats full of orbs.  Thrust, pith, stuff, repeat.  Beam falls on wide set orbs tinted green, orbs staring back, through my beam.  Time to leave, backing slowly, suck, step, squish, suck, step.  Turn to step up into cold grass, mud boots clinging to my legs.  Full sack, heavy with anticipation, perspiration, salivation.
Turn out the sack onto the clean grass, green mortous in a heap.  Pull from my sheath, a sharp gleam, passing through in one pull.  Pass, pull, pass, pull, separating mortous from repast.  Finish with a mound for sacrifice, wide set orbs anticipating my thoughts or smelling its due.  Encroachment deserves payment and hunters pay homage to their betters.  Backing away, turning into the night, looking back to see a feast commence.  A lighter sack, but more than enough.  Sweat through the shirt, mud still cloying, feet finding crushed shell.  Exhale relief, haft in hand, sack twisted in the other, a moon separates from the clouds.  The moon looks down and sees two orbs shining back, a hunters moon.