The old truck grinds to a slow stop
as the eastern sky's stars begin to fade.
An old man exits, no hair on top
a scant hundred yards from a small glade.

Back straightens out with a few groans.
He shoulders his rifle, grasps walking stick
starts down woods road which a friend owns.
slowly, quietly that's the trick.

Before too long he's at the blind
built a mere eight feet off the ground
a few years back when he didn't mind
how climbing made his old heart pound.

By now the sky is tending pink
so he flexes stiff knees, grinds his teeth.
Ere long the deer will start to slink.
Soon frozen ground is underneath.

He settles down puts on felt hat
and sits as daylight quickly grows.
His thoughts dodge each time he thinks of That.
He denies but he knows....he knows.

For yesterday the tests came back.
He'll not hunt here again next season
for his life's line has grown slack.
Those white spots whispered out the reason.

His thoughts turn to others gone;
how they'd left him alone to grow old,
how so many times he'd met the dawn.
He recalled their tales so oft retold.

Full daylight now hits his lonely post
so time to hunt instead of think.
Of these short times he'd make his most.
A green teals flashes past as in a blink.

Out in the glade some turkeys land
from their roost down there over the stream.
They cluck and fuss in their small band
then leave quietly as in a dream.

He's by himself but for a while
then a crow flies overhead.
Its cawing brings a wistful smile
"Not right now I'm not yet dead."

Then a coyote sings its song
from a hillside half mile away.
A near squirrel barks like something's wrong
as morning dew drops fade away.

Silence, then, the world is still
and an old buck steps into the clear.
The man's heart speeds from that old thrill
of seeing such a grand old deer.

He waits for his prize to look away
then raises his rifle to his shoulder.
This deer has likely seen its last day.
By rights it will not become older.

Crosshair settles right where it should.
A finger twitch all it will take.
those tenderloins will sure taste good.
That finger twitch.....he doesn't make.

Instead the rifle's leaned aside.
The hunter smiles and just yells "POW!".
Startled trophy looks side to side
then exits this stage left for now.

The old hunter listens as limbs crack,
until the deer is beyond hearing's range.
He grins, then frowns then rubs his back.
His passed mates would think he is strange.

Slowly, carefully he climbs down
until he's firmly on the ground.
He's undecided; smile or frown?
at how next year the Deer will still be 'round........