The Hunter

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I look for places
where deer could hide
in dense thickets
or in wetlands with tall reeds--
too hard for hunters to enter.

I remember you telling me
that you would see deer
lying down in the swamps,
water up to their faces,
hiding from approaching hunters.

You, who went out each day
during hunting season
to hunt deer,
then came back at night
to tell us
you saw nothing that day—

walking your land
but never raising the gun
to your chest.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

2 responses to “The Hunter

  1. Once again, a quietly moving poem Ethel. I’m glad to have read it. J.

  2. Thank you John. I finally understood my father. Ethel

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