The Hunt

Mesmerized by morning’s mist, cracked coffee cup in hand,
I raised my eyes up toward the skies, dream of the day we’d planned.
Sunshine crested verdant hills, its rays, horizons kissed.
Forged, fiery pinks and amber hues, cool morning air was bliss.

Blue tick hounds brayed all around, preparing for the hunt.
Shot gun shells, rich whiskey smells, the quickest hound up front.
Pickup trucks, prized racks from bucks brought down by hunter’s bows.
The string pulled taught, a target sought with steely sharp arrows.

The thickest copse, in stout treetops, my tree-stand sat, disguised.
A big buck deer soon wandered near, I spied his onyx eyes.
I held my breath, he sensed that death was dangerously close.
As I took aim, we played a game just prey and hunters know.

'Fore deadly dart could strike its mark, I spotted tawny fur.
The buck took off, as if to scoff—his body just a blur.
A tiny fawn, white spots still on her soft, brown tufted coat.
With buck and doe close by, I know, fawn's parents came to gloat.

After awhile, I had to smile, then climbed down from the tree.
I knew that buck had found some luck—this time, he’d bested me.
We'd meet again and maybe then, when bow and buck confront
his family would not stop me from scoring in the hunt.