My son wrote this poem back in November 2009 after a trip to our cabin in Glenwood. Morgan is 19 years old and this is the first poem he has written.

The Hunter

Silently he sits,
alone. His only companion a dog
scarcely but a pup.
They lay, still, cold, at the marsh's edge,
waiting, hoping, praying.
They grow restless, their muscles cramping,
growing tired.
The faint roughness of a honk catches his ear,
pulls at his heart.
His aged frame settles back into the grasses,
joints creaking, hiding itself;
He waits, blowing a call from time to time.
The geese fly in,
and for a moment, the old man is young again,
on his first hunt.
The young, anxious pup at his side transforms,
now a patient Labrador.
Forgetting his age, he jumps, gun on shoulder,
but doesn't fire.
The man in his joy, has again been brought to
his first hunt,
when his father scolded him for not taking a shot.
The young pup turns,
with eyes full of wonder, looking at the man.
He snaps, and fires;
both barrels belching fire and lead,
but he doesn't see anymore.
The gun hits the marsh, the man his knees.
His many years,
sixty since that first hunt, has taken their toll
the very fear of taking a life, has turned,
as he clutches his chest in pain, eyes filling,
barely breathing.
The pup returns, his prize dragging, yelps muffled.
The old man, brokenhearted,
lay motionless in the marsh, the young pup,
wanting attention for doing its job,
barks, dropping the goose. The old man revives,
still clutching his chest,
gathers his gun and his kill, slowly, he walks,
his chest on fire,
swearing that never again he shall visit these grounds.
But that's what he said the last time he was here.   Submitted By: NULL