His rifle held at the ready,
Eyes intent on new-fallen snow,
From the tracks, he knew up ahead
The wounded deer started to slow.
There were drips of blood here and there,
A crimson trail against stark white.
Limbs sagged with snow everywhere,
The forest, a wonderful sight.
But the cold hunter turned blind eye
To nature’s beauty just then,
The ice-coated stream, the blue sky,
For he’d counted points, at least ten.
A ten-point buck, this time no doe.
Ah, the boasting that he would do,
To the guys at the Tally-ho,
All forced to buy brew after brew.
Every year they made that bet,
And he had never won before;
But this year he would be all set,
Time that he could even the score.
The droplets of red crossed the lake,
And the hunter followed along,
Careful now with each step he’d take
For the ice didn’t seem too strong.
In the near distance, he caught sight,
Of the single struggling stag,
With its white tail standing upright,
Its wounded leg it had to draq.
Then the hunter broke through the ice,
Where there’d been a lacework of cracks.
He surfaced one time and then twice –
His friends must now follow his tracks.