Mar 2013
Waiting listening watching -
senses strain against
the darkness.
Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.
The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance
alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes - then ears -
lock on rummaging squirrels.
Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain back and forth.
Stillness -
then the rise of wind
through the trees.
Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup -
no deer.
The afternoon is spent, back against a Maple, with cautious thoughts comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.
senses strain against
the darkness.
Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.
The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance
alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes - then ears -
lock on rummaging squirrels.
Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain back and forth.
Stillness -
then the rise of wind
through the trees.
Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup -
no deer.
The afternoon is spent, back against a Maple, with cautious thoughts comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.
This is a poem I wrote on my stand opening morning of deer hunting, two years ago. Hunting is a family tradition I cherish. I don't have to see any deer for it to be a successful hunt. I enjoy sitting in the woods, an invisible observer, alone with my thoughts. It's also the one opportunity I have to have some candid moments with my dad.
