after R. F.
He doesn’t tell if it was a newcomer
who didn’t understand about hunting,
or a local curmudgeon with a grudge
who posted the woods along the road.
But he made a promise to himself,
and one dark and snowy night
near the end of deer season,
he drank a few cups of tea,
saddled his horse,
and set out to make things right.
When he got to that lonely place,
he slid off the horse, and in the most
basic way he knew, he made
the lovely woods his own again.
I know I’m not the first person to have this thought.