The Hunting Cabin
We called it “The Hunting Cabin”.
We’d go there once a year,
In late autumn. Hunting season.
Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Grandparents,
The whole nine yards.
At sunrise my four uncles, my dad
And my grandpap would all march
Off into the woods carrying rifles and
Shotguns and wearing camouflage coats
And bright orange vests.
My mom and aunts forbade us
To wander off of the property
For fear of being mistaken for a deer.
We’d play ball and badminton in
The field next to the cabin.
The wiffle ball and birdie
Never travelling very far.
We’d run the bases and whack
The birdie and listen for the crack
Of rifle fire and wait for our
Fathers to march out of the woods
With dead animals slung over
Their shoulders and
Big smiles on their faces.
Dedicated to my Uncle “Shock”, Uncle Matt, “Smokey” (my dad), Uncle Al, Uncle Fran and Grandpap
Roy W. Backes
© 2013
Roy W. Backes - Poetry 