The Hunt

The forest opens up this time of year,
there's a chill in the air for ventures so dear.

Walking quiet is difficult on a carpet of leaves,
the rustling signals all creatures beware.

But they are hiding until it is clear.
To come out warily and forage near.

Putting away fat and stores for the winter ahead.
Making sure they can spend it in a warm bed.

Smoke rises in the distance, joining rotting leaves.
Acrid smell of autumn rekindles ancient beliefs.

Hunter sits quietly and waits for the sound.
A squirrel, a partridge, rabbit, turkey come 'round.

Shoots with skill to make a clean kill,
not wanting the animal to suffer any ill.

A time-honored pastime to put food on the table,
all men and boys used to hunt if they were able.

The greatest feeling is to spot a big brash buck,
emerge from the forest for those that have luck.

Heart races as the antlers come into range,
kill must be quick, pull the trigger so strange.

Gun's report echoes through the valley and trees,
he runs for a bit, then mighty buck falls to his knees.

The family won't go hungry this winter of cold.
With warm blankets of fur and venison to behold.

Successful pheasant hunt 1961

My twin brother and I after a successful hunt for
pheasant. The best tasting bird there is. I never
saw a legal deer to shoot in four hunting seasons.

Remembering the joy of wandering off into the woods
hunting small game and deer during hunting season.
Brought home necessary food for the table. Shooting
only older bucks insured that there would be more deer
the next year.

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Copyright 2017 © Ronald W. Hull


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