Fallen branches rise from the creek bed
like the sloughed off antlers of a deer,
the ancestor, perhaps, of one bedded down now,
deep in the woods, hiding from the hunters.
I wish him good cover and safety for the season.
The color of the fallen leaves that blanket the woods
matches his pelt I see. Nature provides.
I imagine him standing by these waters
at dawn, drinking his fill, then disappearing.
Let the hunters go home empty-handed.
It is a great gift just to roam these banks.
Let the creekâs peace be your prize for the day.