Crescent Lake

Crescent Lake Poem

A poem for the searchers of freedom.
A poem for the searchers of freedom.

The darkness ahead matches the blackness behind,
I race to the east, racing sunrise.
The place that I’m marching to, is tucked way out of the way,
A place most folks fly over, but I go to play.
Its seas of tall grass and an ocean of sky,
The desolation it seems is a trick for the eye.
If you go to far corners, and crannies, and cracks,
You’ll find bedded mule deer and coyote tracks.
On the power of air you’ll see birds of all kinds,
To go marching with me is to march back in time.
But this is no place for the meek and the lame,
More like a wild stud that has never been tamed.
So what am searching for you may want to ask,
I’m hunting deer, at least that’s half the task.
Sure I have a bow and my quiver is full,
A hunting knife in my pack, bet your ass it ain’t dull.
Though its deer that I’m searching for its freedom I find,
That not granted by men, but by the divine.
It’s a freedom I’m having difficulty nailing down,
But its real as the invisible wind blowing round.
It’s the same that they searched for the past days of old,
The mountain men, longhunters, and those whose stories untold.
It will take to you highs no drug ever could
And cleanses the mind, just makes a body feel good.
You can’t find it in cities where we live in a pile,
But in unbranded country that’s rough and still wild.
So if you’re souls needing cleansed or your searching for something,
Come pitch in with me and we’ll go mule deer hunting.

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