I am and have always been a hunter. Why do we hunters hunt and what are the connections? |
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The Least of ReasonsThe day’s elk hunt over, afternoon droppingsuddenly to night, Montana in November does things like that, startles those occasional participants who come to know the power of mountains Gathering horses and men, blowing on fingers, stamping feet, cinching leather, rifles slid to scabbards, swinging on, a long ride to camp No elk today, just solitary climbing, do you know what solitary means in Big Sky ranges? Quiet riding back, each silent, lost in thought Creaking leather, plumes of steaming breath, the rolling steady gait of horses, heads down, seen it all Men’s heads up, two feet of fresh snow across the valley Full moon washed silver, no words, nor should there be A stifled, breathless, beating cry and wings Whistler swans, necks stretched, string the moon, their migration, only by night and seldom seen They’ll cry across these ranges, pulling winter Who wouldn’t cry to leave? Cutting trails now, elk and moose, coyote long gone Skidding a creek bank, sit back, urge forward gingerly on ice, snorting, ears pricked, breaking through Scramble, balanced against stirrups, reins loose clawing up again, leaned forward now and glad Rhythm of the saddle settles in, two hours yet to camp High mountain logger’s camp, timbers a century standing And smoke curls, drifting away to follow Whistlers south Unsaddle, feed and water, rub them down, horses that have seen it all, see it too soon again Rifles hung on outside wall, shielded by the overhang, muzzles down against the snow, ready for four in the morning Ready for forty below, for the dark ride out to climb Time now for hot bread, warm stew, a slice of pie and coffee Quiet, reverential conversation, a sip of Wild Turkey . . . bed Killing is the least of reasons for the hunt |
This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection BROKEN PIECES available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |