It is a cold misty bitter pale gray November day. I'm sitting in my dining area looking out at Moose Mountain. It is hunting season and right now I'd just as soon be in here looking out there with my mind wandering over hunts of years ago.
November
Cold gray granite hills
Tan, brown, and shades of green are
muted by chill shrouds of mist.
Ridges, rills, mountain tops remain
Tan, brown, and shades of green are
muted by chill shrouds of mist.
Ridges, rills, mountain tops remain
but faint hints in the array.
Hot blood pumps feet to mountain crests
Gun cocked!
Testosterone spiked, ears pricked.
Rutting deer, the prey.
Explore, ascend, kill, breed.
Life clear, no ambiguity here.
But, November is to decay.
Time to give way.
Youth triumphs season.
Old November men fade to gray.
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