Conservation

A Poem by Betty Thurman

In the winter-time I fed you.

In the spring I planted seeds,

to feed you in the summer months

and take care of all your needs.

Threw apples all around me

and made a salt lick handy.

Then cleared the brush from

here to there and everything was dandy.

In the early morning sunlight

and in the evenings too,

I saw you walk about

my fields as only big bucks do.

Your head held high and stately

you watched me as I gazed

upon your mighty splendor

and truly was amazed.

Your rack, I saw it clearly

fourteen points I counted

I saw this trophy on my wall

and my excitement really mounted.

At last it’s late November

and I sit here on this stump,

I watch you come into my sights

and in my throat’s a lump.

No more will you walk proudly,

nor will your sons be born.

If on this day I take your life

will I the future morn?

The gun is lowered slowly

and as you pass I see

a smaller buck with just

four points looking back at me.

The season it is over

I got my buck that day.

But, I do not tell my friends

about the one that got away.