November Hunt #75

In the haunts of November
Who wants to remember
The swirling fog of the dog
Sitting in this hut made of timber
Stifling the winds of soft slumber
With thick smoke off yet another log

Lying horizontal
My view a ninety degree portrait mode fail
The flames licked towards the extreme left
Which made sense when you think on it
As gravity pulled hard on me
Squashing my right side
Conforming with the contour of this cot

Another hunting season is here
And two days have gone by
But I haven't gone out yet
There could have been a dozen deer at my spot
My empty tree stand is not threat however
As what it is lacking is the hunter in me

No father this year
To accompany me here
To the family hunting camp up North
This late fall season
He is weathering the weather
In his semi air tight funeral vault

I'd considered not coming
But this family tradition was running
At almost seventy five years and two days
I didn't want to break it
My enthusiasm for it faked
As only one moon ago I was at his open grave

It has been therapeutic
Waking up here alone
Heating up coffee for one
A couple eggs and toast
Stepping outside to greet the sun

But after a brisk walk
I just step back inside
Going over the old camp diary journals
Picture albums of times past
Seventy four hunting season memories

Tomorrow I'll pack it up
Take a couple self portraits for the album
Write a page in the diary journal
And head South for home
I'm not in the mood to hunt
I didn't think this time would be much fun
It was just a tradition
But perhaps next year
I'll bring my thirteen year old son