Miscellaneous Poetry

The hunter rises before the sun

Dons his clothes, grabs his gun

The air outside is damp and cold,

Blowing leaves of red and gold

Intently listening for his prey

Searching, seeking, come what may

Rustle of leaves, snap of a twig

Could this be something big?

Through the trees, into the field

Steps the buck, its fate now sealed

There he stands proud and tall

There he stands, there he'll fall

The shot rings out, his aim is true

A 10-point buck the hunter slew