Old guys around here got by
the Great Depression the hard way
would swear by one sure method
to bag a deer for the stewpot
without even owning a bullet
you just need a virgin snowfall
get out before dawn walk the edge
of
a thicket where they bed down
pick a fresh track at first light
and follow fast as you can
all day till by sundown you come
on
the deer exhausted to where
you can walk right up cut his
throat
drag him home hang him up
not that we needed the meat
but at sixteen I was in shape
ran free still mostly a wild
thing
got away with anything it could
hadn’t yet heard how a man
shouldering his load might
clutch his chest kneel and
whisper
what might be mistaken for prayer
to sense the day recede
all that sweet lightness turn
rotten
so for a while without remorse
I could take any animal on the
fly
watch it shiver and flail
as it sank down into its body
as if a little life were nothing
more
but with only a single-shot .22
no good on big game unless
you threaded them through the eye
I listened up and thought
without a word to anyone
I might just give that a try
then was up half the night
worrying
the angel dust sifting down
wouldn’t stay cold enough to
stick
but awoke with a jerk there it
was
fresh cake icing freezing cold
perfect
so I bundled up and lit out
skirted the swamp where they hide
and at daylight came on big
tracks
I could tell when they sunk in
where they turned away from
low hanging branches
must be a pretty fair buck
and the chase was on
slow motion half of it
though pretty soon I could sense
I was doing whatever he did
except sailing clean over fences
jogging thin hard patches
skittering down creekbeds
floundering drifts
sunny patches breaking through
the crust
pushing to stay with him
and not sweat what I can’t see
something out ahead there making
tracks
so through the day I unbutton
my coat to cool off
stuff my hat in a pocket
wish I’d packed a sandwich
anything
to go with the fluffy handful
I scoop and splash up in my face
not worrying noise or if
the wind’s caught my scent
once I find a spot near a
ridgeline
he must have stood awhile
watching
me huff along there below him
from then on keeps circling
downwind
which is a good sign
urges me on through the noon hour
jogging a hundred paces then
walking
then another hundred on the run
lucky somewhere in there cut
across
an abandoned homestead orchard
where I climb for shriveled
apples
just out of his reach
chew a couple catch my second
wind go on
always stuck to his tracks
never once catching sight of him
though in one thicket up ahead I
seem to see
stalks and reeds bend around
something big threading its way
and by late in the day a little
winded
dazed and snowblind and footsore
with one hand I can barely feel
from a glove shucked off
somewhere
and a tightness in the legs lets
me know
bedtime won’t feel like flying
start to see signs he is slipping
meandering now as if lost
then at a steep rise when I least
expect
there he is
rickety as a card table
front legs splayed
head lowered in twilight
eight sharp tines turned to meet
me
watching from the corner of his
eye
heaving plumes of exhaustion
smaller mangier than I’d thought
then I sidle closer
fumble all around me for the
knife
but one more thing shed on the
trail
look quick for something to brain
him
on this downslope miles from
nowhere
but there’s nothing here besides
me reaching out emptyhanded
him feinting and fending off
trembling now breathing hard
dogged spent thing glaring back
in recognition
feeling the treacherous footing
as even turning to backtrack
uphill away from what’s left of
it
live and let live I slip and fall
