Poetry in the Woods


I sit quietly in the woods
Waiting. Watching. Reading Poetry.
I am not of the idealist, tree hugging school of transcendentalism.
Today I drink not from Thoreau and Emerson and Whitman.
I sit silently in a blind
Awaiting the first glimpse of dawn.
“What have you lost?” asks Naomi Shihab Nye
Money, youth, grandparents…my mind creates an endless list.
Then my head lifts, my attention shifts.
A flick of white fur,
The quiet click of steel,
150 grains fly and quickly the doe falls and dies.

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