A hunter sits in the cold and the dark
Silent and listening. His back to the bark.
He's climbed this tree many times before,
Following the trail of a big buck's lore.

Fleeting glimpses, rarely seen,
More mystical than anything.
Birds are chirping. Its still dark.
In the distance a dog will bark.

The horizon glows in the eastern sky.
Trees take shape. An owl glides by.
The drone of a truck on a far away hill.
This makes the hunt; It's not the kill!

- Brent Bacon ©

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