Despite MS
he rises before dawn
puts on camo and worn boots
painstakingly slow
canes his way to the pickup
and pulls his trailered Bad Boy*
to his favorite bend on the creek
leans against the fender
dragging his useless leg
climbs aboard, stalks
to a frost-covered cedar blind
waits the pride of the hunt.

I remember as boys we walked
briskly alongside his cheerful banter
following quail into plum thickets
his good legs and eyes then
helped us learn an ethic
we have never forgotten

And now he still burns
stoking the embers of survival.

In due time, when death
has arrived, when the kill
has occurred, he crawls to the buck
guts it on his knees, wraps
a chain around its hocks, crawls
back to the Bad Boy, winches it
up and on to the trailer,
ties it down, then wills himself
back into the driver’s seat,
drives home worn out –
a tired legacy he honors.

* a battery-powered cart