Not too old to hunt,
it is my eyes that crave
the grace of wild things,
that tell the boy inside
to take another look,
focus while he can.
I have tracked, squeezed
the trigger, gutted, skinned
and hung the flesh
over flames, told the stories
within these mountains
where I became a man
who hunts for pleasure,
for sign each day—
for what he’s never seen.
for Matt St. Martin
Brilliant verse . . .
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Thanks, Peter. I’ve been having to struggle lately.
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Well, John, one man’s struggle is another man’s feast . . . Blessings!
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This was fantastic. Perfect description of a boy/hunter maturing to our age. Most times now, a camera or simply seeing, is the weapon of choice.
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Wisdom really does come with age . . . Allthough some dove and quail would sure taste good tonight with some mushrooms and wine and wild rice. . .. . .
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Absolutely! I don’t want to sound like a purist! Quail, dove, duck, all tasty right off the barbecue. And on some level, I have felt my wild attributes enhanced with some elk and venison. I just haven’t ‘had to kill a buck’ for about twenty years now, just rather see and know they’re out there.
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I’m not sure where you are, but every time I look at your ‘drycrick’ I think of John Steinbeck and the Red Pony.
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The Salinas Valley is about 3 hours northwest of here.
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