This poem was written by my wife for a very good friend of mine. AFter she wrote this poem I took the empty cartridge that was used to harvest the buck and put it along with the poem and a picture of his dad in it. Just something different for you all to read.
Tim’s Season
The rifle he now carries proudly
Was carried by another in seasons before
He thinks about hunting seasons of the past
As he walks out the cabin door
Every season since he was a youngster
His Dad had been by his side
But this season would be different
For it was the first since his Dad had died
As he walks through the laurel that morning
He knows his Dad’s spirit is there
And when the buck comes into range
His rifle’s shot pierces the air
He kneels down beside his buck
He feels his Dad’s presence beside him
And he can almost hear his Dad’s voice say,
“Great shot! That’s a nice buck, Tim!”
The morning’s hunt is over
And he goes back to the cabin with his trophy buck
He knows he has his Dad to thank
For his morning of good luck
The hunting experiences he’s shared with his Dad
Are things he will be able to pass on
Just like his Dad’s 308 rifle
They will all someday pass to his son
Written for Tim Reynolds
July 29, 2001