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Fallen leaves crumple under my bottom,

the relative warmth reawakening ticks.

Clouds mask hints of moon and stars.

I cannot see trees and trail before me.

November chill seeps through wool,

but warming movements make noise

and I abide my shivers and cramps,

hands folded atop the Savage rifle.

I sense the pre-dawn dark through                                                            

filters of excessively greasy food,

cheap bourbon and tobacco.

Awake for the birth of a hangover.

Then the faint click of hooves on rock

the rustle of winter dead grasses                                              

the nearing noises of movement that

I even with rifle scope cannot see.

I think to hazard a blind shot,

feeling optimistic that my ears

have bracketed the deer’s position,

but hesitate for others are hunting here.

I return to the camp after false dawn,

dragging back nothing but myself.

Regretting not having seen my deer

but knowing that to see it is to kill it.