Fall is here and first frost’s near
Winds and waters cool.
The leaves they change,
Red, yellow, or’ange
And pranks are being pulled.
The air so light, but full of delight
All are having fun.
Yet, in the woods, a whitetail pants
Because he’s on the run.
Powder burns the hunter’s nose—he blinks
He missed his shot
His silent footsteps, thunderous heart,
His camo; all for not.
The buck he waits, in tall thick thorns
His tail, a tall white flag
Above his brow, a giant rack!
How wonderous is this stag?
With four great leaps he’s out of sight
He’s vanished in thin air
The hunter scanning through the brush
He knows he’s hiding there
And this he knows as well as the first
To not pursue, for it be cursed
The stag has won, the hunter’s lost
You never shoot before first frost.
A Poet’s Qualm 