In between a couple of old forked trees
Is nestled a nailed together pine stand
Where a man dressed in camo and neon
Patiently waits with his rifle in hand
There’s a conveniently placed tasty salt lick
And some crab apples strewn here and there
Camouflaged man spies through his scope
Scanning below for sight of the first pair
At his side a canteen of fresh water
The ground is snowy, the morning brisk
Coffee is always his first preference
Still the warmth is not worth the risk
No whiff of man can ever be present
Their keen detection creating more dare
The man in camouflage stiffens himself
From his scoped eye he’s viewed white hair
After hours of stalking, a shot thunders
Simultaneously there is something of a scream
Camo man wanders home with only gun in hand
Target missed again, mounted antlers still a dream
copyright 2008 Cheryl A. Caron
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this one it flows