A Cold Hunt (ROUND 2)

Let's workshop this poem about a boy and his father on a cold morning hunt, where pride, clumsiness, and quiet love play out against the chill of the stream and the weight of growing up.

scent of the day: Nose rest

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A Cold Hunt

Dawn pink feeble in the ashen sky, my father—
head to toe in hunter wool of rusty red—carved
a wobbly path for me over black-algae stones
poking just above the tinkle of the icy stream. 
He turned around. “Just watch your step there.”
Confident I needed no babying, I slipped right
where his finger still pointed. “Fuckin Spikey!”

Yet I was quick to show—shotgun submerged—
I had saved the coffee. On my back I held it high.
“It didn’t spill,” I insisted. Shivering at our tree
(the gun drying upside down, my father blowing
steam from the mouth of the Styrofoam cup),
I was too ashamed to let my teeth chatter reveal
I needed out. He chuckled. “Fuckin Spikey, huh?” 

*This poem captures a tender moment we would often joke about years later.