The rickety stand,
Perched high in an oak,
Is surrounded by dewy leaves
Of the morning
Soaking my sleeves
Of the coat I lugged through the trees
That encase me
In a cocoon of silence.

Burning coffee scorches my throat.
Through muffled gags, a snap
Of what I hope
And see
Is a twig beneath a toe
Of a brown target
Through a window in the leaves.

The scope is slow to reach my eye
But the wait is worth to spy
On the angel buck
300 yards out.

The crosshairs frame this angel’s halo,
Sunrise peeking through the tines.
The crosshairs frame this angel’s heart,
Trigger and my nail align.

The forest’s filled with echoes
Of waves escaping from my barrel
Following close behind the bullet
That kicks up colors up ahead.

No red, only the white
Of his rear end saying goodbye
To bless another with his sight.