‘Twas the last day of season, and all through the lease
not a creature was moving, except for some geese.
In below-freezing temps, the hunter he sat
chilled to the bone, from his socks to his hat.
He stared down the lanes, from his left to his right,
til his vision was so blurred he was losing his sight.
As boredom seeped in he wanted to go home,
but soon changed his mind when he thought up this poem.
A receipt in his pocket and a pen on his side,
he put the words together, his mind open wide.
When outside his blind just 10 yards a-yonder
a buck stepped out, and himself did ponder
this shivering creature before him, all clad in bright clothes,
Then he sniffed and he snorted through his shiny black nose.
The buck darted through the forest as he sensed something wrong,
and when the hunter looked up from his rhyme, the 10-point was gone.
Joel Phelps, 2015
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