Waking up before the sun and
the unknowing unfound.
Putting on layer
after layer to keep warm,
and to stay out of sight.
Fighting in the bitter cold for numerous hours,
waiting to see any movement.
Talking quietly in the bleak cold
to try and pass the time.
The sun is the only thing to move,
climbing the sky as the day drudges on.
We still haven't found them.
So we move to a different spot,
quietly and quickly
not to get caught.
We climb up the ledge,
forcing ourselves up too steep
and endeavouring slope,
with our rifles slung across our backs.
A little out of breath,
finding a nice spot to sit,
rest and wait.
A sizable summit slopes
down toward us.
Trees scattered randomly as if
they are climbing to the top.
Others pushing the unfound
in our direction.
Sitting under a lonely tree,
as it starts to gently snow,
and everything goes breathless,
except turkey calls in the distance,
then we return a gobble or two.
A sudden blast goes off behind us,
we wait for more but nothing else comes.
Something is found.
Scaling down the trail
a young buck,
shot in the head,
lying on the ground.
If he knew earlier
he would have run.