Chris Writing Anything

I’m barely entering my twelfth year

And I hear dad’s brothers talk of yesteryear

It’s the upcoming hunt I definitely fear

Yet I think they’ll let me drink a beer

In the crispness of Wisconsin November morn

My thoughts are unmistakeably torn

As the snow greets a new day born

I feel the whitetail should be warned

The blaze orange invades the northwoods

The DNR claims it’s for the herd’s good

Kill a deer? I don’t think I could

Yet, for my dad’s sake, I feel I should

I patiently wait in the frozen air

Rifle cocked anticipating a buck who would dare

Really…is this game absolutely fair

Yet, the cold livens my senses…I’m aware

Later on, we find a hunting stand

It had been erected on a perfect piece of land

Yet, inside the shelter, we find no man

Surely, a perch on the hill is in demand

Uncle Ken and I claim it together

Our body heat will beat the weather

But inside we discover piles of crap

A porcupine is nested and we fell for its trap

We bolt from the stand in fearful haste

That stand seems like such a waste

But the piles of dung can’t be erased

So we slide on our hotseats towards the hill’s base

The dark has fallen on the woods

We retire to the cabin enjoying jarred goods

Mom’s chili is warmed on stovetop oven

The cabin is small but it beats nothing

After a meal and a twelve ounce brew

We play sheepshead damn the three Pennie’s I blew

We all retire in grandpa’s shack

Somedays I wish I could have those days back