He sat on his tree stand looking out
over a field layered in frost.
He’d found his way without doubt,
even in darkness he didn’t get lost.
Getting up early was the cost
of getting a shot at a good deer,
and the winter was drawing near.
The season was coming to a close
and many miles on sore feet,
clad in camo hunting clothes,
yet still he had shot no meat.
He couldn’t afford to buy beef,
and had a family relying on him,
so he sat out in the cold morning dim.
A doe stepped out into the field,
with no fawns alongside.
He raised up his gun, still concealed,
and drew a quick bead with his eye,
better this one should die,
than a doe who still had young,
he took aim for a heart-lung.
The gun went off in his hands,
the round struck fast and true.
The doe sprinted across frozen land,
then collapsed in seconds few.
When it lay still he knew
that it had been a quick death,
which always was for the best.
He whispered a prayer of thanks
as he clamored out of the tree.
He thanked God for giving him a chance,
and the deer who now would be
a savior to his family.
He set about dressing the kill,
the smell of it still worse than the chill.
The doe went up upon his back,
onward to his farm he roamed,
with forty-five pounds of meat to pack,
plus the hide, antlers, and bone.
He brought it back all alone,
thankful for this cold morning’s take.
To the garage, to cut up the steaks!