Again today
I hunted the wily morel, armed
with little knowledge
and dulling eyes.
I sought in vain through gooseberry
thicket, pucker brush,
cedar, tripping
on fox-grape vines, finding only box
tortoises and one sad
reminder of
an autumn pastime: the picked-
over carcass of a young
buck, bones and hide
scattered at the foot of a stately white oak.
I claimed the skull.
On the drive home
I collected six morels from a high bank
roadside. I took
them, leaving
the skull and rack of the buck. Balance
is important.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Again today
I hunted the wily morel, armed
with little knowledge
and dulling eyes.
I sought in vain through gooseberry
thicket, pucker brush,
cedar, tripping
on fox-grape vines, finding only box
tortoises and one sad
reminder of
an autumn pastime: the picked-
over carcass of a young
buck, bones and hide
scattered at the foot of a stately white oak.
I claimed the skull.
On the drive home
I collected six morels from a high bank
roadside. I took
them, leaving
the skull and rack of the buck. Balance
is important.