Hunting Manual

The unicorn is an easy prey: its horn in the maiden’s lap is an obvious twist, a tamed figure—like the hawk that once roamed free, but sits now, fat and hooded, squawking on the hunter’s wrist. It’s easy to catch what no longer captures the mind, long since woven in, a faded tapestry on a crumbling wall made by the women who wore keys at their waists and in their sleep came hot dreams of wounded knights left bleeding in their care, who would wake the next morning groaning from the leftover lance in the groin, look up into the round blond face beaming down at them thinking "mine," and say: "angel." Such beasts are easy to catch; their dreams betray them. But the hard prey is the one that won’t come bidden. By these signs you will know it: when you lift your lure out of the water, the long plastic line will be missing its end: the lure and the hook will be gone, and the line will swing free in the air, so light it will be without bait or its cunning sharp curl of silver. Or when you pull your net from the stream, it will be eaten as if by acid, its fine mesh sodden shreds. Or when you go at dawn to check your traps, their great metal jaws will be wrenched open, the teeth blunt with rust as if they had lain for years in the rain. Or when the thunderstorm suddenly breaks in the summer, next morning the computer’s memory will be blank. Look then for the blank card, the sprung trap, the net’s dissolve, the unburdened line that swings free in the air. There. By day, go empty-handed to the hunt and come home the same way in the dark.