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First off, let me say this. I did not
write this poem and in no way am I trying to pawn it off as mine. It was written and given to me by Jamie Carter of "Carters Blend" game lures in Locust Grove, Georgia.
I figure this is just in time for the upcoming season.
Old Gray Face--
Everything is very quiet, as I make my way.
Mother Nature is taking a rest, before the light of day.
I've got another hill to cross, before I reach the place.
The last swamp I tracked him to--I speak of Ol' Gray Face.
He's known to quite a few for his cunning and baffling ways.
Some hunted him for years, others gave up in days.
He totes a fine set of horns, I jumped him once last year.
The wind was blowing hard, my footsteps he did not hear.
I didn't fire a shot, I didn't have time you see.
Old Gray Face is smart, he's made a fool of me.
It's a hard half mile walk, to a special chosen tree.
Large scrapes lie beneath it, for all the doe to see.
He didn't think I'd find it, not this early in the year.
Now he's probably sleeping, not knowing I'm this near.
Beside the path I walk, I find a does remains.
Her life is finally over, her carcass the coyotes claim.
Mother Nature is sometimes cruel, but only the strong survive.
This is her way of knowing, only the strong stay alive.
After one last look at her, I ease on to my tree.
It's just a short walk now, thirty yards in front of me.
A whippoorwill breaks the silence, with his spooky little song.
Day breaks not far off, My wait won't be long.
Birds are starting to sing, squirrels start to chatter.
My presence has gone unknown, or to them it just don't matter.
I hear him in the swamp, sounds like he's hooking a tree.
It has to be old gray face, I just hope he comes to me.
At thirty yards a movement catches my eye.
A little spotted fawn, that was very small in size.
Beside it stood Old Gray Face, looking sad as I've ever seen.
They both just stared at the doe, she must have been their queen.
I slowly shoulder my Savage, something happened like never before.
I could not squeeze the trigger, I could not make it roar.
If I take old gray face now, the fawn will be left here alone.
I just couldn't do that, with his mother already gone.
With my Savage still shouldered and scope to my eye, I watch as they
cross the hill. The spotted fawn and old Gray Face, the biggest buck, I
never did kill.
Written by:
Jamie Carter
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