Gentleman Bob

Bob-white! Bob-bob-white!

A princely song in refrain

gathers the covey;

the patter of little feet

leads to avian congress.

Red Hand of the Hunter

Red hand of the hunter

filled with the swept blade—

deft strokes unlimber

muscle, sinew, and bone.

Kneeling before the quarry,

back to the sinking sun:

red hand of the hunter,

the work has just begun.

Red hand of the hunter,

proficient from years gone by

in a craft too savage

for the naïve, urban eye.

From field, to truck, to gambrel—

a harvest grateful held!

Red hand of the hunter,

it so reverently felled.

Red hand of the hunter,

not a blemish, but a badge

on each of the kindred brethren

unwilling to beg or cadge. 

Song of November

I guess this is what happens when you read 400+ pages of Kipling in two days and think about hunting season....

Hunter’s moon—full of light,

shining amber, radiant bright!

Wheat fields glow the ghostly hue;

whitetails graze in the midnight dew.

Here they low (nocturnal beasts),

shunning daybreak for protected feasts.  

Antlers glisten, no light to bleach

far away from the hunter’s fatal reach.

Secluded revelry, hidden dance—

frolic in moonbeams, autumn romance!

Carefree courting here begun

and ended ‘fore the rise of sun.  

When the blue-grey morn does peek

‘neath the horizon,  salmon pink,

they slip and melt into the shade

and their visage hastily fade.

Brethren hunters, stir not then

for the cold will burn the skin;

all your effort will be in vain

if last night the moon did reign.

Sharpen knives and oil the gun,

bide thy time until set of sun.

If then the lunar face is new

tomorrow’s hunt will be more true.