I spy the Hunter, back from his hunt.
I see his back, well braced and trussed.
Dragging his bounty, without any fuss.
He'd fallen from a ladder, under a tree,
Thrown flat on his back, in front of me.
No walking, no bending, after his fall.
Down for the count, three weeks in all.
How, do you ask, did he bag so much game?
From one day on the hunt, and being so lame?
A trip to Sisters, Oregon, he made in a day.
With two empty coolers, and an invite to play.
He visited friends, who'd gotten new beef.
Cleared out their freezer, assuaged his own grief.
100 lbs...quality ground beef and steak,
Some pot roasts, some sausage...all, he did take.
No rifle, no tent, no wind, rain or sleet,
He rode in his pickup, stayed off of his feet.
The grateful white hunter is home from his day,
His Coleman, his Igloo, his pride, here to stay.
Am I making him eat crow...over his losses, his fall?
No, he was pampered and cared for...because after all,
He missed out on camping, his friends and his beer,
But he came home with a big smile...and a whole lot of steer.
©Michele M. Bilyeu 2007
hunter's 'widow' and quilting wife
the Crow's Nest, using my dried hydrangeas etc.