The Hunt


Here I sit in the dark, alone and cold.

The rain and wind, pounding the blind, don’t stop.

The blind sways and creeks, acting as if old.

The bait sits waiting, the cream of the crop.


The sun begins to rise over the trees.

The torrent subsides as dawn takes the stage.

The gales are replaced by a gentle breeze.

The silent ghost rustles the foliage.


My heart races.  My hairs stand on their ends.

His entrance is from a well used deer run.

He walks to the pile.  Slowly his neck bends.

After long hours, my waiting is done.


My finger twitches.  There reports a blast.

This isn’t my first, and won’t be my last.


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