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.
Archery is a sport enjoyed by men, women and children. There is something about releasing that arrow and watching it arc through the air to bury itself in the distant target that is immensely satisfying. A bowhunter, does not have to shoot an arrow from the bow they carry, although many dream of taking an animal with this ancient weapon. There is another reason that men and women alike, take to the field. The reason is in the name—hunter. To hunt, is to seek something. People hunt for gold, they hunt for success, they hunt for knowledge, they hunt for solitude.
This book's combination of prose and poetry is the result of my time in the wilderness, and the channel it opens in my quest for truth while in that magical place. It doesn't matter if I am fishing, canoeing, hunting, or camping, the sensation is the same. It draws me in and I am in awe of the nature there for all to see. I feel, truly, that I am in the presence of God!
At seventy-seven, 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.