Hunting, a Way of Life
Hunting on my Mind (all rights reserved)
In hunting, I find that I can identify, with my father and his family's ways,
A help in the making, of who I am, and the happy moments of my days.
n walking wide fields, to carry my gun, and with a good dog by my side,
Means so much to a hunter, and the sportsman's world, in which I abide.
When I'm out sitting on a stand, hunting deer, or the Turkey that I hear,
Not anything in life is so troubling to me, for I'm keeping the wild, so near.
My keen eyes scan an horizon, wide, for the quarry of feathers and of fur,
Not mattering so much in a harvesting of wild game, or for anything to stir.
That feeling of the cold air upon my face, and to watch the red leaves fall,
The chatter of gray squirrels up in the trees, means by far, the most of all.
As a chip monk scurries, with a sweet bird's song, a big deer hurries along.
Tall grasses sway in the breezes then, and to shoot, it would feel so wrong.
In the silence I experience, besides the wind, there's no place, I'd rather be,
The distant call of baying hounds, breaks the spell, that it all casts upon me,
A new crescent moon in an evening's sky, is rising high up above the far hill,
Soon to be time for my leaving it behind, and In my going, it's against my will.
Tomorrow will be a new Fall day, and in it, the potential, of hunting once again,
I will go home and in anticipating the hours, for new memories that have no end.
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