ATTENTION - ALL DEER HUNTERS!

        

          Once again the elusive White Tail deer is being stalked my people covered in camouflage and sitting high in a tree or hiding behind blinds.  These gentle-looking creatures walk into the vision of a hunter who is determined to take home a trophy set of antlers.  Sometimes they do, but mostly they don’t.  The following poem depicts one hunter’s outcome.

 

           The Hunter’s Defeat

 

There once was a hunter named Jim,

Whom late one day on a whim,

Took up his bow and decided to go,

For the urge to kill was in him.

 

The weather was dark and murky,

But his mind was on venison jerky.

The distance not far, he jumped in his car;

Dressed up to look like a turkey.

 

He arrived in the woods about dusk,

Smelling strongly of whitetail musk.

Bow in his hand, he climbed up on the stand.

Underneath laid corn in the husk.

 

He waited and soon came the sound

Of something pawing the ground.

The rustle of grass, as below it did pass,

Caused his heart to instantly pound.

 

                                                His eyes became narrow and dark

As he focused to find the mark.

He pulled up the bow and the arrow let go;

Sailed through the air like a lark.

 

Feather and steel parted air;

Tore through the muscle and hair.

Down fell the stag, now he could brag.

He had killed without thought or care.

 

                                                Down from the tree he did bound

And ran as he hit the ground.

He plunged in the knife and ended its life;

Blood flowed with a gushing sound.

 

He tied the deer to the hood,

Drove quickly out of the wood.

He felt such a thrill and relished the kill.

He would do it again if he could.

 

The deer hung by its legs in a shed.

Its body now all stained in red.

Its eyes glazed and still; where now was the thrill?

The prince of the forest was dead.

 

Once regal, its antlers a crown;

Intelligence gleamed from eyes brown.

How proud it once stood in the sheltering wood;

Protector of doe and of fawn.

 

No longer to run like the wind

Or drink from the stream at the bend.

Its head now hangs low, what a cruel way to go.

It appears we have come to the end.

 

But wait; there is more to the tale.

To not tell it indeed I would fail.

Ironic the fate; revenge never late,

For the deer in the end will prevail.

 

Its antlers now lay on the floor

To be mounted over the door.

But a dog lured by scent, to the source he went;

Took them off to be seen never more.

 

And so, heartless hunter of deer,

No trophy have you to cheer.

Revenge is so sweet; it shouts your defeat.

The deer had the last laugh, it’s clear.

                                                                                Wanda Hammond Ritter