The Poets of Black Rock Books

The Encounter

Fallen leaves crumple under my bottom,
the relative warmth reawakening ticks.
Clouds mask hints of moon and stars.
I cannot see trees and trail before me.

November chill seeps through wool,
but warming movements make noise
and I abide my shivers and cramps,
hands folded atop the Savage rifle.

I sense the pre-dawn dark through
filters of excessively greasy food,
cheap bourbon and tobacco.
Awake for the birth of a hangover.

Then the faint click of hooves on rock
the rustle of winter dead grasses
the nearing noises of movement that
I even with rifle scope cannot see.

I think to hazard a blind shot,
feeling optimistic that my ears
have bracketed the deer’s position,
but hesitate for others are hunting here.

I return to the camp after false dawn,
dragging back nothing but myself.
Regretting not having seen my deer
but knowing that to see it is to kill it.

Copyright © 2026 by Edward Ahern