It could be a log cabin
In a clearing way up high
Or a set of well used wall tents
Crouched beneath an Autum sky
It could be just a backpack tent
Set by the forrest's edge
Or maybe just a sleeping bag
On some wild mountian's ledge
What ever kind of camp it is
Will be plumb full of cheer
'Cause the very fact it's set up
Means the best time of the Year
There'll be coffee on the campfire
A hint of snow-edge wind
that sets the tree's quakin'
As a friend comes ridin' in
There'll be silhouettes on tent walls
As an old huntin' tales are told
And the crisp clear-spilt of fire wood
As the Axe blades fights the cold
Then gradually the camp'll quiet
As hunter's hit their sacks
To dream ELk Dreams
Of Black -necked Bulls
And Massive white -tined Racks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really enjoyed this one, reminds me of past trips of my own way out yonder; thanks for the memories.