Sometimes I dream of green fields,
Freckled with strong branches,
Standing tall and proud,
Like a soldier who survived trenches.
Nearby a creek runs slowly.
It carries away the old dirt,
Revealing smooth stones,
Replenishing those around who hurt.
There are birds, hiding plainly.
There are rabbits, who carelessly graze.
Deer gallop, not for fear, but fun.
At night there is a blanket of light haze.
A young hunter walks through the field.
His first reaction is one of survival.
Wood for fire, water for drinking.
Many animals to shoot with his rifle.
When caught in a moment, eye to eye.
He considers this field a sanctuary.
The white tail are fortunate this time,
But outside of the field, their treaty will tarry.
He silently bids them farewell,
A nonverbal agreement.