Wild Heaven

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

The mornings are April in glistening dew
Where the whippoorwills sing and chuck-wills, too.
At daybreak the turkeys, perched high in the pines,
Wake up with sharp eyes and calls of all kinds.
At the hens’ soft calls old toms are 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.

Afternoons are autumn, the sky deepest blue,
Copper light, long shadows and red-shifted hue.
The slopes are replete with acorns galore;
A crisp autumn breeze, a frost is in store.
High among hardwoods in an old wooden stand
I watch a cold ridge with longbow in hand.
Amorous bucks with curled lips chase the does
Copper light, long shadows, and brilliant, bronze coats.

As dusk closes in the woodies and teal
peel 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,
And 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