One day after hunting season,

my dog Blue and I walk in snow

amid deer prints and tracks

hunters have left. An orange bandanna  

adorns his neck. I’ve got on

my St. Louis Cardinals cap.

I’m taking no chances, thinking

where certain men gather, isn’t there

always someone still drunk

or holding a grudge or hating a law?

Of course I’m a man, too,

often prone to forget or deny

I‘m complicit in most things

my kind do or have done.

Blue is checking out what appears

to be fox scat, when a shot rings out.

He cringes, then does something pathetic

with his tail, and suddenly I value

having pants, able to conceal

what tends to shrivel from fear. 

The oaks are creaking in the cold.

The wind is playing a silent dirge.

But that’s it; no other shot or sign

of man, or fallen deer. Blue leads

the way back, turning now and then

to see if I’m the man he thinks I am.