Hunter's Morn

HUNTER'S MORN

In the damp early darkness,
An old man sat on a flat stump
with his long legs folded under him.
A 30-06 rested on his wool-covered knees.
His owl-like eyes fluttered,
peering through prisms.
His face was deeply lined,
as craggy as bark.
His arms were still strong.
The hunting rifle was not a burden,
that carved wood, black powder, and steel companion,
recalling bright yesterdays
when its barrel was hot from firing,
and the locker was jammed
with venison, grouse, and elk.
That shiny-spiraled deeply-bored and oiled barrel was cold now,
like the old man's hands and feet.
In his great chest, his heart was slack muscle.
It jumped and skipped and raised Cain,
until he could not enjoy the labor of hiking,
and catching his breath was a luxury.
His own body was fighting him,
as he had fought all of his days
against the bosses, the bastards, and the system,
with the intense passion of the Proletariat.
But his iron will was vastly stronger than his tired heart.
He would not give in, ever.
He would sit on that stump in the dark,
and wait for the sun.

As daybreak's breeze rustled through his thick hair,
his answer came to him pungent on the chill of the wind;
honeyed dew off wildflowers and grasses and pine trees,
sweet and natural.
He sniffed the air like an old bear,
his flaring nostrils suddenly laden
with the odor of huckleberries.
A perfect chorus of unseen birds
pierced the knotted fist within his chest,
and the molten morning warmed
his grizzled spirit.
A wild smile creased the leather of his face.
He struggled, knee-deep in buck brush, up the wet hillside.
Hell,
there may not be meat today,
but by God,
there would be fruit.

Glenn Buttkus
February 1978