It's late November, cold and gray
last warmth of autumn gone away
most of the trees are bleak and bare
their festive garb no longer there

Each step descends on festive litter
alerting squirrels, making them chitter
the crunch of dry leaves quietens all
as denizens flee from each foot fall

The wind blows in puffs like breath
unsteady and as cold as death
the chill creeps clear down to the bone
am I here in these woods alone ?

I tighten scarf and raise my hood
heat's conservation understood
now I decide that I'll sit still
let game come to me if it will

Chill grows the longer that I sit
but I stay in spite of it
for soon the time of day draws near
when I'll likely see, maybe, a deer

Alas arrives the hunter's bane
in the form of a cold rain
I arise with a shrug of ire
and head toward home and a warm fire