After reading this poem, many of you will see that I am not a hunter, although I do not object to those who are.
Silently watching,
and intently listening,
the doe and fawn
munched on the nearly frozen
apples beneath the
naked branches of the only
tree left in the field.
Waiting in the firs
surrounding the field,
the hunter stood with
finger on the trigger,
thankful he had no one
armed and waiting
next to his dining room
where he would soon be
eating his next evening meal.
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