From the archive
The Encounter
Fallen leaves crumple under my bottom,
the relative warmth reawakening ticks.
Clouds mask hints of moon and stars.
I cannot see trees and trail before me.
November chill seeps through wool,
but warming movements make noise
and I abide my shivers and cramps,
hands folded atop the Savage rifle.
I sense the pre-dawn dark through
filters of excessively greasy food,
cheap bourbon and tobacco.
Awake for the birth of a hangover.
Then the faint click of hooves on rock
the rustle of winter dead grasses
the nearing noises of movement that
I even with rifle scope cannot see.
I think to hazard a blind shot,
feeling optimistic that my ears
have bracketed the deer’s position,
but hesitate for others are hunting here.
I return to the camp after false dawn,
dragging back nothing but myself.
Regretting not having seen my deer
but knowing that to see it is to kill it.
