The Hartford Deer
With the caveat that I absolutely do not claim to be a poet – I just write poetry (or write at it) occasionally when the mood hits me. Generally the mood is sparked by a particular happening or scene that reaches out and seizes my attention.
One such scene appeared on a cold winter’s night in northern Wyoming. We were driving through fields to the home of a friend when, as we passed one of his haystacks, there on top of the stack in silhouette against a full moon stood a huge stag deer, his strong body beautifully proportioned, his antlers glorious against the pale moonlight.
A writer typically takes a thought from here and an incident from there and combines them to make something entirely different. My initial thought, when I saw him, was of the Hartford logo; he could have been that deer.
Hartford—Connecticut—borders Massachusetts—Boston—Midnight Ride of Paul Revere—Revolutionary War. My ancestors fought while their women prayed. See the thought pattern? And from an anonymous buck deer, seen in silhouette on a cold winter’s night, came the following poem:
DOWN COUNTRY LANES
A quick staccato beat of drums,
Echoing
Down country lanes
Long since silent of tramping feet.
Springtime, and youthful hearts
With hopes held high
Of war soon won say,
“Goodbye Mother.
Sarah, you’ll not know that I
Was even gone.”
Militia men for Concord bound.
Their women wait
While straining ears hear,
Silently,
A quick staccato beat of drums
Echoing.
