Back of his hand passes over his beard,
clearing the way for a quick little kiss,
last swig of coffee, and a bright orange hat
bobs out the door with a wink and a whistle.

Mud-caked boots make a path through a field,
steady slogging over dead brush, to woods,
where the hunter heads for a lone flat rock;
the dew still clings as he sits down, waiting.

Pushing the hat back, he breathes in the scents
of forest and soil, sun-warmed stone, quiet air
barely stirs, where deer may tiptoe slowly past
as he sits on a rock, eyes closed, once a year.