OBSERVATIONS ON BECOMING AN AGING HUNTER (from this spring chicken's point of view)

When hunters turn a certain agey
they become a lot more cagey
not telling others the best places
the best wood or trails or traces

Thinking silence increases luck
in his quest for a big buck
whose death won't make it cease to grow
(he's lucky if he gets a doe)

The stuff he carries to his stand
forms a load that's almost grand
each item fills a different need
these old farts are a different breed

First to go into his pack
something for a mid-day snack
two sandwiches, an apple, Coke
crackers, beanie weinies, another coke
moon pie, honeybun, a pear (no joke
vienna sausages , candy bar
(some peanuts scavenged from wife's car)
enough food to make most folks choke

Eye glasses stashed so friends don't see
his vision's perfect yessirree
a wind checker, a grunt tube call
hand warmers and that's hardly all

A cushion for that cold hard seat
to offset loss of gluteal meat
a hat with an ample brim
camo paint to help hide him
rattling antlers, extra hat
toilet paper and all that

A harness to hook him to the tree
in case he sleeps and falls you see
when all is packed, loaded and done
he almost forgets his gun

Come sunrise he's in his stand
rifle near and snack in hand
peering through the dawn's twilight
not even a squirrel within sight

Yet he grins from ear to ear
he just knows a buck is near
( he sent his friends to other places
where sign was scant, indeed mere traces

Just as the sun clears distant trees
far gunshots start to taunt and tease
some from where he sent his buddies
clear confidence rapidly muddies

By ten o'clock the sun grows warm
shining on his snoozing form
at twenty yards a buck walks by
unseen by either sleeping eye

Then just as buck passes from sight
a loud gunshot erupts from his right
startling him from whitetail dreams
deer everywhere but here it seems

By mid day his "snacks" are gone
he farts, shrugs then stifles a yawn
curses lack of deer and truck
descends from stand, walks to his truck

Then drives to the nearby country store
to meet with his buddies once more
and explain the wind was wrong
different details, the same old song

He sees his friends already there
all three smiling, stories to share
about deer taken where there was no sign
all part of some twisted design

He slaps their backs and says that's swell
( inwardly thinking "what the hell?")
unaware the buck which walked past him
was bigger than any of them

One buddy is a stout young fellow
who can drag a deer from any hollow
one owns the wooded rolling land
upon which he placed his stand

The last is a middle aged man
all part of the master plan
he's a cardiologist you see
whose skills just might come in handy

So one day when I grow old
(fifty eight is young, I'm told)
I've realized and I've agreed
these are the kinds of friend I'll need