Once more I walk through predawn light
as autumn stars fade over head
old eyes requiring a flash light.
I could still be home warm in bed.

The old game trail forks right up here
as it has for years gone by.
My destination's growing near.
The dimmest stars desert the sky.

I take the right fork on the path
although it's worn less than the other.
Was it long ago Cherokees' warpath?
I first walked on it with my brother.

There, ahead beside the old hay field
is the faded blind where I am bound.
It's weathered boards barely revealed
beside a cedar tall and round.

I stoop to enter through the side,
sit on a bench worn smooth by time.
Ghosts of old companions here reside
their memories built up like salt rime.

Full daylight in its time arrives
along with cardinals and blue jays
my sense of wonderment survives.
A puff of air, a nearby weed top sways.

Far away geese honk and form
on their way to southern land
where the weather's always warm.
They depart in a shifting V shaped band.

A wood duck pair rockets up the creek;
a coyote sings to greet the day;
above the trees the sun sneaks its first peek;
squirrels appear and start to play.

My hand seeks warmth in a deep pocket
and finds a spear point forgotten there
which I rub like a good luck locket,
a reminder I'm not the first one there.

Leaves have just begun to change
but a few from poplars float to the ground.
I wonder if they think it strange
joining decayed ancestors all around?

Then I see a flick of grey
then a horizontal misplaced shape
not so very far away
as hair bristles on my nape.

With but one step the hints become a deer,
glints on antlers reveal a smallish buck
slowly making his way here.
Today, it seems, that I'm in luck.

Scope's crosshair waver then steady
on a teenage deer with first head gear.
I watch, decide he isn't ready.
For me today he need not fear.

Then he walks into a privet thicket
disappearing as if he never was
unaware I'd almost punched his ticket.
I smile to myself and pause.

Not so very long ago
there were lots of folks with whom to share
how I'd let this young buck go.
Now who to tell? They're all elsewhere.

I realize my face is dour
with thoughts of all those gone away;
how I'm alone at this early hour
on an otherwise splendid day.

Then my father comes to mind,
how he taught me to love the wild
and cherish all the nooks I'd find
back when I was a mere child.

Then my brother's smiling face
when he'd "luck up" and get a deer
or rabbit in a thicket place
(his last buck was not too far from here)

And suddenly I'm not alone
for ghosts are filling up my mind
and although they are not flesh and bone
I've got company in this old blind.