For Henry Loyd Smith

 

….

 

I saw you there,

  resting there,

   supine against a tree.

 

I saw you there,

  you didn’t see me,

    watching you at a tree.

 

Your rifle at rest

  across your lap,

    and you at rest

      with a tree.

 

This would be your last time,

  your life was slipping fast.

 

Your sons-in-law and daughters, too,

  all thought that this was best:

    a hunting trip, to take with us.

 They knew that this was your last.

 

High in the Pecos

  the Aspen turns yellow,

    you wear a vest of red.

 

You sit at the foot

  of an Aspen tree,

    I see you grasping for breath.

 

I saw you there,

  you didn’t see me,

    I watched you grimmace and gasp.

 

A hunting trip,

  from the base of a tree,

    this one was defintely last.

 

No deer that year,

  it didn’t seem fair;

    but fairness never is just.

 

Besides, the game

  would tell you the same,

    if there were someone with a gun

      they could trust.

 

 

 

 

(c)2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn