While Sleeping Hunter Dreams

Fast Asleep

The yellow leaves come down.  The gusting wind
unhooks their stems from limbs, releasing them
to furl and swirl through cooling air.  At last,
no more hot summer days.  The chill of frost
on morning-glory vines sets out to kill
their will to live and bloom in blues and reds.
The wasps, too numb to sting, fly slow in search
of clefts to shield them from the coming freeze.
The ladybugs attach to windowsills
like beggar lice to slacks of velveteen.
A buck with eight-point rack meanders through
a hunter’s yard where large, synthetic buck
stands bolted down–a target for son’s bow
and arrow.  Snorting buck begins to paw.
A fight commences when the antlers lock.
The phony head falls off.  The buck holds high
his rack, big headedly, returns through fog
to oak-lined woods while sleeping hunter dreams.
The autumn sun arises bright and round
as basketballs—or pumpkins, carved like jack-
o-lanterns, snaggle-toothed and smiling by
the porch, October thirty-first.  Wild geese
fly south.  They bid adieu to all who hear
their cry.  The cold and blowing snow appears
and mummy-wraps the world in softest white.

© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols


November 09, 2013

Writing Attitudes    (Note: borrowed this from somewhere. Found in my notes on writing tips)

1.  Write with nouns and verbs,
rather than adjectives and adverbs
2.  Don’t overwrite or overstate

3.  Avoid rhetorical questions
4.  Stay out of your story
5.  Break all these rules —

Hemingway did.  Faulkner did.

English: Hemingway posing for a dust jacket ph...

English: Hemingway posing for a dust jacket photo by Lloyd Arnold for the first edition of “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, at the Sun Valley Lodge, Idaho, late 1939. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Portrait of William Faulkner

Portrait of William Faulkner (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

4 comments on “While Sleeping Hunter Dreams

  1. I like the poem, too. Nice.


  2. Catherine Johnson says:

    Love this, Freeda! Especially the buck fight with the fake one too funny.


    • That part is true. I saw that early one morning, ran to get the camera and the big buck was walking away, the fake one’s head on the ground! Just had to be a poem there. The fake deer was my grandson’s for practicing.


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