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.
2 responses to “The Hunter”
Once again, a quietly moving poem Ethel. I’m glad to have read it. J.
Thank you John. I finally understood my father. Ethel