Wild Heaven

The Lord’s made a place designed just for me
Where the land is still wild, and I may always run free.

The mornings are April, soaked in glistening dew
Where the whippoorwills sing and the chuck-wills do too.
At daybreak the turkeys, perched high in the pines,
Greet the morning with vigor and calls of all kinds.
At the hens’ soft calls an old tom is seduced
But he comes to my call from straight off the roost;
I pick up my trophy, four years old, I infer
‘Cause he hangs on a limb by only one spur.

The evenings are autumn, the sky deepest blue,
Shafts of autumn light and red-shifted hue.
The slopes are replete with acorns galore;
A crisp autumn breeze, a frost is in store.
High in the hardwoods in an old wooden stand
I watch a cold ridge with longbow in hand.
All evening long the deer work the slopes
Copper light and long shadows, flashing brilliant, bronze coats.

As dusk closes in the woodies and teal
pour down from the sky for their evening meal.
Swirling and squealing through timber and marsh
I stand in the flurry with No. 4 charge.
But on Heavenly marshes there is no hording,
‘Cause  I’m light years away from the nearest game warden.

But I must get some sleep ’cause the morning is spring
And when the sun rises the gobblers take wing.
Back to my camp I trek off through the forest,
Hearing the sound of God’s Heavenly chorus.

H.S. Bridges