November 20th

Footfalls on dark-shrouded leaves are muffled.
A trail illuminated only by memory is traversed.
It is 5:30 in the morning and three miles from the nearest road.
Searching feet find more snags than stealth would permit.
Somewhere in the distance comes a snort.
The game has been given away;
nothing can be done now.
Now we sit and wait.

Wait. Wait for the sun to rise.
Look. Peer through the fog.
Listen. Was that a squirrel or a deer?
I’ve done this for years
but it doesn’t get any easier.
The warmth from the walk in is gone.
Cold settles upon me.
It creeps to my toes
and harangues me for getting out of bed.

When the sun finally breaks the horizon
I awake from my sensory stupor.
Not only can I hear the calling of jays,
but I see the swaying of limbs overhead
as grey squirrels bound from tree to tree.
I do my best to sit still and watch.
Now is the time for magic.
The chorus of the woods is at its crescendo.

I check my watch to see how long it’s been
Since my cold hands wrapped a welcoming cup of coffee.
Three hours.
My careless movement disturbs the neighbors
and from a white oak a squirrel curses
my intrusion into the community.
He barks and scolds until I slink down
and let the buck-brush hide my shame.

But when I look up to assess my denigrator
something is not right about the scene.
He is not looking at me.

Deep breaths.
Where is the air?
Not forty yards in front of me
stands a ghost of wheaten brown.
How does an animal just appear
without sound or movement?
The hunted teaches the hunter a lesson.
But if I live for another hundred years
I will never be as at home here.

Her head is down.
Black eyes (like windows to eternity)
seem to meet my gaze.
Yet there is no flagging tail,
just flickering ears at peace with the world.
She takes a mouthful of fallen persimmon—
nature’s autumnal pride.
I’ve eaten many myself
and I think for a moment that it would be
a fitting last meal for me as well.

I came here for a reason.
I donned frosty boots.
I drew shallow breaths
after climbing hill after hill.
I even faced down a boss
who doesn’t understand
what it is to be called
to rejoin the circle of life.

Like many others led astray
he believes that food comes
canned or vacuum-sealed.
Is it naivety or willful ignorance?
In the presence of this sacred animal
I make a solemn oath.
Whoever my children will be
they will know what it is
to do what I am about to do.

Slowly, like an elm
bending under new-fallen snow.
I court the rifle
and we meet cheek-to-cheek.
A dark bead dances
over the greying coat.
In this moment of time
my heart is torn;
joy and regret intertwine.
The report silences the chorus
and nature is shocked at my act.
But I am thankful for her bounty.
With my stricken quarry
I make an honor-bound pact.