Hunting Camp

November 30, 2007
By
Red Beacon calling
Wood stacked
Wood smoke hanging in the air
All awaits me here

Home is Here,
tucked under Chick Hill,
Animal’s talking
Watch the beavers swim.

Sometimes too hot
Sometimes too cold,
Always different like the seasons
but yet always the same.

First deer went down here,
No power and no need,
Mud covered four wheelers sitting in the back,
This is where home is.





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