The hunters have gone,
they are not allowed to kill in spring,
blue cartridges litter glades,
a reminder of their deadly presence.
Alone, not even a phone pole in sight
and nature’s hum is intense.
Eyes in trees and under bushes see me
and snakes slithers off in the undergrowth.
On a flat field, with a long view, I stop
plan where to build my log cabin,
it’s a day a dream
but the thought of being a part of what I see overwhelms,
hope that some day my ashes will be strew here
in this, the landscape of my life-
far from the sea- and that it will make a hunter sneeze a little
when pulling the trigger of his shotgun.