Perched on a hilltop, far and away,
From the hustle and bustle of life's everyday.
Up in a tree, or down on the ground,
He's in before daylight, without a sound.

In blackness he's waiting, for daylight's reprieve.
Gray takes over, as darkness leaves.
He's forgot life's problems, his troubles are gone.
He is one with nature, at the break of dawn.

The shades of gray, fuse with colors so bright.
The woods in the fall, are a breath taking sight.
Relaxed yet ready, his bow in his hand.
Awestruck by nature, just one grain of sand.

A shake of the head, a silent sigh.
The stillness is broken. Leaves rustle nearby.
His heart is beating, first lightly then stronger.
His mind is racing. Can't stand it much longer.

The sound is behind him. It's coming nearer.
Is it a squirrel? Or is it a deer?
Head turning slowly, in the rhythm of the woods.
A squirrel is searching for his winter goods.

The squirrel scurries to bury a nut.
Acorns have fallen. The bucks are in rut.
His senses are primed. His heart won't slow.
A feeling only a hunter can know.

Primordial senses in overdrive.
It feels good just to be alive.
The leaves rustle again. This time its for real.
A doe bounds out, ahh.... it's no big deal.

She nudges leaves under his stand.
He regrips his bow with his left hand.
His predator instincts sense something's in store.
The hair stands on his neck, and he's ready once more.

The doe feeds on acorns this place doesn't lack.
Then she snaps her head up and looks over her back.
On the does back trail and off to his right,
Saplings start shaking. Oh, what a sight.

Rising slowly and facing the sound in the trees.
God help him now, he's weak in the knees.
The buck steps out; His nose to the ground.
He draws his bow, without making a sound.

At nineteen yards and quartering away.
The perfect shot any given day.
The arrow flew straight, and stuck in the ground.
Blood tip to tip and no buck around.

All hell broke lose on that autumn day.
With a hole in his chest, the buck runs away.
He sits down and leans back....
He tries to regain what he lacks.

No matter how many times he's been down this road,
It's always the same... ....Emotional overload.
He follows the trail through brush and pine,
Crouching low he spots a tine.
The feelings that go through a hunters mind.
The emotions that flood, the ties that bind.

- Brent Bacon ©

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