By Jesse Kinder
I have sat for hours in this big oak tree; it would sure be nice to get to go pee.
I know for sure it’s warmer in the truck, when out of the woods steps a big old buck.
My heart’s pounding. I can’t catch my breath, while he glides through, wind always at his chest.
That smart old doe has caught me with her eye, as I hit the release I let my arrow fly.
I hope my aim is straight and true; if not, I could be sick a year, maybe two.
Nervous and shaking, did I make a good hit? I sit back down, I think I’ll wait for a bit.
Seeing the blood, I become part hound. As I look up, there he lies on the ground.
The woods are quiet, kneeling here all alone, so I tip my hat to the warrior who won’t make it home.
How many times will this story be told? So many, my friends say, it’s getting old.
My wife says it’s time to bring Christmas cheer; I look at the calendar … when is November deer?
— Jesse Kinder