A Bowhunter In God's Cathedral
That time of day in late September,
before the North Wind rattles the bones,
when the ginger sun has finally slipped from sight
and the cotton sky is on fire.
Those last moments before the blanket of night
gently settles upon the wooded glen,
they awaken for their fifteen minutes of daily fame.
Insects emerge, anxious for the darkness of night,
Chickadees flit to gather the feast...
THE FIRST HALF OF ONE OF THE POEMS WRITTEN FROM MEMORIES OF THE TIMES IN THE FIELD WHEN EVERYTHING IS CRYSTAL CLEAR AND THE SUN IS SETTING.
At seventy-nine, I’m at the beginning of a new chapter in a life filled with blessings from above, adventure, love of family, and kinships reaching into the heavens and to God himself. —AND— I love to tell a story.