[Pg. 193, Full paragraphs 1-3, James Dickey]
He was staggering toward the tree, still ten or fifteen feet from it,
Trying to get the gun up as though it were something too long, or too limber to raise,
like a hose.
He fired again, but only a yard in front of his feet.
The top of his chest was another color, and as he melted forward and down I saw the arrow
Hanging down his back just below the neck;
it was painted entirely red, and was just hanging by the nock and flipping stiffly and softly.
He got carefully down to his knees; blood poured when his mouth opened
And seemed to splash up out of the ground,
To have the force of something coming out of the earth,
A spring revealed when the right stone was moved.
Die, I thought,
My God,
Die, die.
I slid down on my right side on the back of the rock and laid my cheek to the stone.
What is wrong with me? I asked,
As the rock seriously and gravely began to turn, as though it might rise.
I looked down at my other side and an arrow,
The crooked one from the bow quiver, was sticking through it,
And the broken bow was still hanging to it by the lower part
of the clip.
I put my head down, and was gone.
Where?
I went comfortably into the distance, and I had a dim image of myself
turning around, disappearing into the mist,
Waving
Good-bye.