Fallen branches rise from the creek bed
like the sloughed off antlers of the old buck,
bedded down now, hiding from the hunters.
I wish him good cover and safety for the season.
The color of the fallen leaves that blanket
the woods will match his pelt. Nature provides.
I can see him standing by these waters
at dawn, drinking his fill, then disappearing.
Let the hunters go home empty-handed.
Their cupboards do not lack for food.
It is a great gift just to roam these banks.
Let the creekâs peace be your prize for the day.