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Elk Hunt - Shakespearean style

In Meeker's vale, where mountains touch the skies,

An alfalfa field before us calmly lies.

Two hundred fifty elk, a sight to glean,

To move unseen a task, nigh unforeseen.


Our guide named Hugh, and Father by my side,

We hunker down, in quiet we abide.

At last I spot him—five by five, the bull,

Amidst his kin, the scene is nearly full.


A hundred thirty-eight yards separates,

My steady aim on destiny debates.

For three long minutes, in my sight he stays,

But cow elk guard him, blocking aim and gaze.


I dare adjust—alert, they bark and flee,

My chance arrives, as if by fate's decree.

The cows disperse, the bull steps forth alone,

My rifle speaks; its aim and end are known.


Down falls the bull, as twilight fades from view,

Amidst the field and mountains' varied hue.

A tale to pass, from elder unto youth,

Of patience, skill, and undying truth.

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