Hunting, Ethics, and the Poems That Come From It · TradBowhunter-Ethical Predator

Hunting, Ethics, and the Poems That Come From It

Hey everyone,

I’ve been slowly working through my collection of older prose-style & narrative poems—most centred around life in the outdoors and the ethical questions that naturally come with that. These pieces often explore the tension between taking and honouring, and the lessons learned from being close to wild places.

Recently, I wrote a newer piece (earlier this year) that’s pretty personal—most of them are in their own way—but this one feels especially tied to my life and raising my young children in the hunting community. It speaks more directly to some of the issues we see in modern hunting culture: how quickly ethics can get lost when ego, tech, or detachment enter the picture. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, and this poem tries to put some of that into words.

I’ll share below—hoping you ethical predators out there enjoy it, and can maybe even relate in some way.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝

—𝑨 𝑭𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚’𝒔 𝑱𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝑻𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑬𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝑯𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒄𝒚

I see it now, too clearly to pretend otherwise.

The way the world presses in—through screens, through stories, through voices that echo around my children louder than my own. It's not just the noise, it’s the boasting. The friends who come over in lifted trucks, caked in mud and pride, talking about kills like conquests, like trophies won from a battlefield. They slap backs and share photos—grins stretched wide beside bloodied animals; guns held high like flags of victory.

And my boys listen. They lean in.

I see the way their eyes spark—not with reverence, but with hunger. For the shot. For the kill. For the story they’ll get to tell after. They ask how soon they can shoot; how big the rack must be before it’s “worth it.” They talk about deer like targets, not lives. They talk about rifles and gear, not patience or thanks. They want it all now—the buck, the moment, the glory.

And the friends feed it.

They mean no harm, maybe. But they have forgotten something sacred. Or maybe they never knew it at all.

And I—I feel something in me tighten. Break, even. Because this is not the way.

Not the way my father showed me, in quiet woods that smelled of moss and smoke. Not the way I was taught—to kneel at the base of a spruce and listen before I ever touched a weapon. To watch the deer long before dreaming of taking one. To make an offering to the soil after every harvest, to whisper a thanks to the spirit that had given itself so we might eat.

The friends don’t talk like that. They talk louder. Faster. They’ve forgotten—or maybe never learned—that hunting was never meant to be sport. It was ceremony. A bond between flesh and forest. A sacred trade.

I watch my boys mimic them—shoulders square, voices louder, too proud of things they haven’t yet earned. And I feel time slipping through my fingers like icy creek water. I see them turning into men before they’ve become stewards. Becoming hunters before they’ve learned how to see.

So I make a vow, quietly, to myself, and to the woods.

I will not raise takers.

I will teach my children to wait. To walk softly, with ears open and hearts awake. To notice more than just antlers—to see the way the crow calls when danger comes, to read the trail not just with their eyes but their instincts. I will take them where the wild still remembers—where trees lean over ancient stones and the moss grows thick with memory.

They will learn that a real hunt begins with stillness. With listening. With love.

Before they ever raise a rifle, they will raise their hands to the sky and give thanks for what may come—or may not. They will sit for hours and see nothing, and I will tell them that this too is the hunt. That being in the presence of the living world is never a waste.

And when they do take a life, they will do it slowly. Cleanly. With their breath held and their spirit open. They will gut with respect. They will carry the weight not only in their hands but in their hearts.

They will leave something behind—an offering to the woods, a piece of the animal returned to the earth as thanks. The first cut, the last bone, the cleanest scrap laid gently beneath a poplar or beside a stream—so the forest knows it is honoured, and life continues in a circle.

I will tell them what the friends never do: that this is not about proving anything. That the forest is not a place to conquer, but to belong. That to take is also to give.

And maybe, just maybe, their friends will see this in them.

Maybe they’ll watch the way my sons move through the woods—not for glory, but for grace—and something will stir. Maybe they’ll remember, somewhere deep, that we were once part of the earth, not above it. That we once fed and clothed our families not with pride, but with purpose.

I cannot drown out the noise. But I can speak truth into the silence. And I will.

Because someone must teach the old ways.

And I am only one mother—but that is enough.

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