One of the first poems I ever wrote was for my brother-in-law Mel Moe who used to hunt quite a bit up the Wishkah.
The leaves are falling from the trees.
The feel of fall in every breeze.
So once again the time is here
To get my gun and hunt some deer.
When deciding where to go,
Of course, I always think of Moe.
He tells of all those king sized tracks,
Of all all those super-duper racks.
The catch is that you have to learn
To spot them in that six foot fern.
Every time I hunt that stuff,
I swear I that I have had enough.
But have no doubt that I’ll go back
To hunt the needle in the old haystack.