An old deer stand ladder haunts the forest,
Waiting for a naturalist to remove it,
Waiting for a hunter to rebuild it,
The deer trails still pass by it,
Waiting in silence as the snow piles on and around it,
The Menominee River and Long Island Channel isolates it,
Perhaps a hundred year flood will take it,
Long Island has been a home to it,
The white tail birthing grounds surround it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem