Hunting Poem by Trevor Wells

It's a cold and bitter morning in late December.
My breath shows up like fog in early April.
I ascend my treestand many feet above the ground.
It is like a sanctuary, a place to get away from the world.
The woods are marred with the sounds of the rustling
Squirrels and blowing leaves, and the occasional owl.
The crashing of an approaching deer heightens
All the senses, and speeds up the heart.
It is the adrenaline and ominous mornings
That keep me coming back.