A hunter followed me to Walden Pond, where tall oaks casted shadows, and pine needles covered the ground.

I heard him behind me on I-95 going south to Baltimore only to turn around and head north to Philadelphia where statues in parks whispered my name.

He chased me in New York all over town, from the Bronx Zoo to Washington Square. Yelled at me on the 6 train going to Brooklyn; a mad man beating a drum. Never was there solace.

In Maine, looking out at the Atlantic, I thought there was peace. His waves crashed against rocks, and seagulls flew over.

I watched as sunlight grew dark. The radio played jazz from another time. WKCR remembered Miles Davis. And so did I. Peace had come. I was no longer hunted.