The north woods are filled With the latter day knights Armed with the arrows Of seasonal rites. Hung from the branches In chainmail vests Of camouflage cotton Secure in their nests. The quiver releasing The arrow to bow, Poised for the passing Of buck or of doe. Endless the hours Of patience they spend In hopes that to one An arrow they’ll send. Then in a moment, Unguarded and still, The deer is acquainted With the arrow that kills. The knight in his armor Descends to the ground To claim for his glory The muted of sound.