skittering down while it is still
lifting their noses in the air
smelling the hunt that lingers there
never see them with a buck
who has a different kind of luck
during season, he travels alone
every night a different home
daring not to stop and graze
not in the field or forest leas
hidden in the meadow's loam
many places he can roam
a doe comes near - at least 3 feet
before she looks and then sees me
on her fleet feet, she runs away
don't worry doe, it's not your day
plenty of shots, but none are mine
they call it hunting, I know why
hard to find the bucks are hidden
maybe next time will be my bidding
Poetry by M.J.B. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
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