Blacktail Creek

A hunting poem

From AAC

At age thirteen I fought to match my father’s pace 
tracking elk, managing only to summon his fury
when, tight-lipped, he’d spin around
after I’d stumbled onto a twig or crept too slowly
over the forest floor. After the first heavy snow 
we joined one of his friends, a seasoned woodsman
whose rifle lay in the crook of his arm
like a cigarette on the lip of a mob boss.  
I stood in the dark at Blacktail Creek 
while my father hissed out a plan, and soon 
we were marching up the trail, groping our way 
through a cedar stand toward the dim line of the ridge.  
By daybreak, we had reached hip-deep snow, 
my groin cramping as I high-stepped 
to meet my father’s stride. He watched his friend 
disappear into the trees as I fell behind, 
struggling through each drift like the living dead,
and I saw him shudder once, as if chilled by the sight 
of his likeness bereft of strength, his own blood 
staggering among men.

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