written By
The family farm was never quiet.
Pine needles held every sound
a snapped twig,
the creak of a laddered stand.
On any trail,
a cousin or uncle might appear,
just a nod,
no words.
Orange jackets
hid in the branches,
watchers stitched into the timber,
holding their rifles steady.
Now the faces
blur into seasons,
a custom fading,
a tradition I still follow.
The stands remain.
Shadows swing
between bark and wind.
Winter comes,
and I walk the old paths,
listening for a rustle,
an echo in the leaves.
They are gone,
orange erased from the backdrop,
but the trees remember,
scattered figures in the timber,
waiting with me.
