Trophy Buck

Oct 2 2014

Hunters in the woods

humping through the underbrush,

stumbling over fallen trees

mucking through the sodden leaves

in florid orange vests.

Who warm themselves with drink,

sweating underneath

camouflage, and gumboots.

Eyes squinting, fingers twitchy,

hair-trigger

at anything that moves.

But the woods are oddly lifeless.

Just scolding squirrels, out of sight

and distant birds, in soundless flight

and shape-shifting shadows.

They will trash-talk their buddies

knock back steak and beer.

But there will be no trophy buck this year.

No winged deer,

dragging itself off

to lick its wounds, and die.

Except on the drive home,

when a skittish doe

was startled by the headlights.

A fair fight, pick-up vs deer.

No guns.

Dead tie.

I was out walking the dogs, on our familiar path through the woods, when they took-off into the bush, barking nervously (I say "nervously" because they're not really the courageous heroes they imagine themselves!), and I could make out a distant voice. I immediately had visions of drunken hunters, straying onto private property and hair-trigger at anything that moves. Turns out it was our neighbour -- who was of course perfectly sober -- had been bow-hunting, and was searching for a grouse he might have missed; but also might have killed, or winged. The dogs came up empty, and we were relieved to think there had been no wounded animal left to die.

I don't hunt. Nevertheless, I respect the notion of killing what you eat, and of our necessary role in maintaining the balance of nature, having eliminated most of the other top predators. And I get the argument that the animals they take were given the chance to lead a far better life than those raised for our thoughtless consumption on feedlots and factory farms. And I like to think that most hunters are responsible and safe, and that they operate with reverence and gratitude. But being as generous as I can in this, there is still no case to be made for this being a fair fight: guns vs defenceless creatures is inherently uneven. (Needless to say, a bow gives the animal a little more of a fighting chance.)

When we met, I joked with our neighbour that he'd probably have better luck taking his truck out on the nearest road and hunting with it! (There are a lot of deer around here, and driving after dark takes constant vigilance.)

I'm probably unfairly hard on the hunters in this poem, depicting them as loutish good ol' boys who hunt drunk, who crash through the woods in their ridiculous camouflage and lurid orange, who shoot haphazardly, and who leave wounded animals to die.

Anyway, all these strands of thought were the beginnings of this poem: the crude hunters (no aspersions on my neighbour, who is a good hunter); a wounded animal; and skittish deer jumping out into the road. And led -- quite unintentionally -- to its end; with its fatal symmetry, and oddly satisfying fairness.

I originally had something about "crashing through the windshield" there. I know one of my failings is to over-write, and that I do this out of not trusting the reader enough. So I'm pleased that I stuck with cutting this. Because any attentive reader can quite capably make this inference on her own. And because it must be mildly annoying to get the message that you need your hand held as you navigate the poem, like an uncomprehending toddler crossing the street. After all, a "skittish" deer that's "startled" says all that needs to be said. (And in the spirit of "less is more", a good editor would probably try to persuade me to drop the entire third stanza, as well!)

It took many permutations of "pick-up/ fight/ gun/ tie" before I settled on this final version (which ended up a-b-b-a instead of a-b-a-b). Without being able to read the poem cold, it's hard for me to tell how well it works. But I'm still really pleased with "dead tie": how short, sharp, and strong it is; how it implies a conclusion, without definitively stating it.