Abstract: Man vs Deer

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On the porch of the old blue house,

up the hill from the McDowell farm,

sat Mr. Lean.

He rocked a bit, as he looked across the lane to the corn field,

and the tree line beyond it.

His eyes focused thin,

to a clump of firs on the far end.

As though on cue, or perhaps sensing the moment,

a triumphant buck thrust himself into the open,

to the right of the firs,

then worked his way down to a row of uneaten corn silk.

He stopped to sniff the air,

but detected nothing.

Back to the buffet,

Up one row, then doubling back to get the other side.

Mr. Lean, now out of his seat,

moved swiftly into his old blue house,

a beat passed,

and he reappeared.

He charged back through the door,

with a Browning .306 in the left hand,

and a few shinny rounds in his right.

From the top step, he paused to shove both rounds in to the rifle.

An eerie calm over took the house,

as Mr. Lean raised his gun,

toward the proud buck still chomping on corn stalks,

unaware of the judgment to come.

Just then, and without reason,

that deer dropped to the ground,

out of site, and what for?

The wind hadn’t shifted.

Mr. Lean scanned the tree line,

that bastard is still there,

he thought,

so he held his aim, patiently.

After waiting longer than needed— to know the truth,

whatever happen, how ever it happened,

the proud sonofabitch got away.

He’ll be back,

opined Mr. Lean.

There’s a whole field of corn,

and deer will listen to his belly.

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