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The Bowman

The bowman stood atop the hill,
Feet firmly in the rye.
His arrow nocked, his hands �a grip
Target steady to his eye

The wind would never save him,
No earthly thing could twist,
The death that would arrive in flight,
When he released his wrist.

How long the time he�d hunted,
How long the chances missed,
But death today, would arrive in flight,
When he released his wrist.

The sun sent down a warming glow,
Across the pastured hill.
He�ll die alone on summer�s breast
But cheat the winter�s chill.

The target chuckled loudly,
No thoughts of death this �morn.
His breastplate as a marker,
To guide the arrow home.

The time was now to rake his foe,
While light and day were fresh.
And stop the laughing countenance,
By mating point with flesh.

And so, the bowman steadied,
In the rye upon the crest,
But stopped - a spate of searing pain,
Plunged deep into his chest.

A bowman stood across the hill,
Feet firmly in the rye.
His arrow gone, his hands �a grip
Target writhing down to die...

- 2001

Sam,

You got that right about mule deer being the SMART ones, and I have recent proof.

Two weeks ago Eileen and I went on our annual Old Gun Hunt to slay does along the Milk River. We had tags for both mule deer and whitetails, but every time we put a stalk on muleys some whitetails intervened, walking right up to us to commit suicide. We ended up with all whitetails in the back of the pickup!

I could spend the rest of my life hunting mulies and be perfectly content. Don't care if I ever shoot another white tail. They just dont do it for me no matter how smart they are supposed to be.

John

This one time , on the cover of National Dragster magazine...