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Rusted hinges on the hayfield gate
complain at moving on this day.
Their protests harshly reverberate
but the gate swings open anyway.

I take my cap off in the heat,
wipe new formed sweat off of my head.
Perhaps most people would retreat
but I step into the field instead.

Heat shimmers off the field fresh mowed
causing me to squint my eyes.
Stubble crunches from my footfall's load.
This summer there are no dry flies.

I approach the shade of hardwood trees
where a disturbed crow throws caws at me.
Leaves quiver like my tiring knees
still healing from new surgery.

Like a curtain I cross into shade
and sigh at decrease in summer's heat.
happy to leave the sun scorched glade.
I spy a stump and take a seat.

Soon the sweat begins to dry
and knees decide that they don't hurt.
I miss a mosquito passing by
then scuff the duff to show dry dirt.

A swig of water from my new canteen
then decide to go on down the hill
beneath a solid canopy of green
to where a spring births a tiny rill.

Mid day ... it seems I'm all alone,
wild life too wise to move in July heat
or sing in woods as dry as bone.
Quiet....I hear my own heart beat.

I pass an old familiar hickory
where years past I shot at an old buck
which then vanished almost instantly.
Some hunts' success depends on luck.

Just as the spring comes into view
a single tree frog comes to ear
joined by a dove as if on cue
cooing sadly as any balladeer.

A few more steps and then I'm there
where the spring forms a cold clear pool
and I spot the rusted folding chair
I brought here when the air was cool.

I collapse gratefully into the chair
and notice clouds building to the west
then give thanks for my just Being there.
Leaning back I give green eyes a rest..

Thunder's crack shakes me awake
and flushes a velvet buck nearby.
I guess he had a thirst to slake
but now his hooves make white tail fly.

The burst of cool wind on my face
is more than welcome in this heat
as I look up to see thick low clouds race
I decide it's time that I retreat.

With a stiff grunt I slowly rise
just as a raindrop taps me on my hat
which means to urge me, I surmise,
to hurry my old legs and scat.

At first step beyond the white oak's spread
the sky unleashes driving rain
with hail which hits like shots of lead.
Old hat scarcely deflects the pain.

In days of youth I would have run
instead I increase shuffle's pace.
( at least the storm now hides the sun )
Toward nearby truck I slowly race.

Then I'm there and safe inside
rain instead of sweat now soaking me.
But rain or heat these woods abide.
Their doing so is fine by me.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


you have all the time
to beat SNOW man
in EPICURIAL poems
you now compose
wow who will read these
search me in glaciers
later if you please .

This one Is a bit long but it's hardly an epic lol. I'm hoping Wes returns before long as that will mean his better half is getting well. As always, appreciate your visit.......stan

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