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On the trail
The buck is standing near the aged oak
at the end of the trail.
My bundled up father kneels down
next to the leaning red maple,
the reddening leaves shaking like
my fingers on the trigger.
A doe pauses,
with her yearlings at her tail
she smells us,
I think,
but my mind is else where.
Bang!
November sun shines,
the yearlings and their mother run knowing
that horrid noise brings danger.
The buck too,
has run
up the trail,
through the trees,
only to be found lying in the breeze.

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