We just returned from the cabin, and it is definitely hunting season in the northland. Most pick-up trucks carried either hunters in blaze orange, or deer already taken.
Some years game is plenty; others not so much. Judging from today's drive, I would venture that this season left the hunters happy, unlike a few autumns back.
Hunting Season
A shooting star slides
November's sky,
wavelets freeze into silence.
Ears twitching, deer forage
attuned to tuneful twigs.
A chorus of wolves
across the lake raises fine hair:
the herd needs thinning.
But the Browning oiled next door
roils my gut. Bullet wounds
from ER shifts still haunt:
I prefer the wildlife alive.
Come dawn a lone shot
echoes leafless. Those
in deer-stands curse
the lack of game. At dusk
a buck lopes the road,
behind my eyes, almost smiling.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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