The Hunter by Choctaw artist Connie D Phillips, Native American art
Oil on Canvas 40 x 30 x 1.5 Prints Only
$3,700.00 USD
Hunter is a powerful painting and poem by Choctaw artist Connie D. Phillips, exploring the hawk's instinct, survival, and the fierce love of a mother. The Hunter was created as both a painting and a poem, paired together to capture the hawk's sharp instinct, her hunger, and the unrelenting duty to feed her young. This work reflects themes of survival, motherhood, and the raw balance of nature.
The Hunter (Poem)
She cuts the sky like a blade,
A shadow sharpened by hunger.
Mercy does not dwell in her breast,
Only the fire of instinct.
She circles, sharp eyes searching.
Silent as dusk,
She falls,
Talons unsheathed,
Without hesitation, she strikes,
A storm of flesh and feathers.
The meadow stills, a heartbeat
Caught between breath and death.
Her power unfurls. She rises,
Bloodied gift clutched,
Against her chest.
Above the river's jagged stone,
She glides to a stop.
Wings wide, she balances on the ledge.
Here her babies cry, mouths open to the sky,
Their hunger endless.
—Connie D. Phillips
Hunter is a powerful painting and poem by Choctaw artist Connie D. Phillips, exploring the hawk's instinct, survival, and the fierce love of a mother. The Hunter was created as both a painting and a poem, paired together to capture the hawk's sharp instinct, her hunger, and the unrelenting duty to feed her young. This work reflects themes of survival, motherhood, and the raw balance of nature. The Hunter (Poem) She cuts the sky like a blade, A shadow sharpened by hunger. Mercy does not dwell in her breast, Only the fire of instinct. She circles, sharp eyes searching. Silent as dusk, She falls, Talons unsheathed, Without hesitation, she strikes, A storm of flesh and feathers. The meadow stills, a heartbeat Caught between breath and death. Her power unfurls. She rises, Bloodied gift clutched, Against her chest. Above the river's jagged stone, She glides to a stop. Wings wide, she balances on the ledge. Here her babies cry, mouths open to the sky, Their hunger endless. —Connie D. Phillips