At zero four thirty the men arose
To put on their warmest clothes,

Thermals and woolens, boots laced tight,
They venture into the dark of night.

Orange and plaids, worn on First Day,
Protect these men in a visual way.

Protein bars and thermos containers,
One empty bottle, all no-brainers.

Rifle and ammo fully secured;
Men trod silently, never speaking a word.

They climb inside each hidden space;
Looking for sign; cold on face.

Rifles rest upon a brace;
They check their scopes just in case.

Plus 16 from the pamphlet table;
Ready and willing but not able.

6:23 is printed on a line;
Plus 16 makes six thirty-nine.

A rifle reports at six forty-three;
Four minutes after; shot legally.

Hunting season’s over for that one,
He waits in place; sets aside his gun.

He won’t track deer in early light;
He’ll wait until the sun is bright.

Unscrewing the bottle, he takes a pee;
Thankful for a short time in his tree.

More hunters, more days,
Each one talks of deer that walked away,

Seven points or more, deer management;
Don’t waste ammo for an adolescent.

Whiskey and beer, in buckets at the cabin,
All telling tales with plenty of laughing.

Day Seven brings a newer dawn
And the night-drinking men suppress a yawn.

Trepidation grows among the men.
Will they get one before it ends?

Branches move a bit erratically;
It’s the largest buck; it’s behind a tree.

A man sights crosshairs upon its frame;
Waiting for a shot to stake his claim.

He pulls the trigger from his stand;
Meat ‘n memories are now in hand.