Still

Strapped onto a longleaf pine twenty feet up like some strange mistake, some odd ornament, my arrow knocked, my bow clipped to my stand, the tree slowly swaying in a warm October breeze rocking me to sleep while my senses tuck me in—

the wetwarm leaf and pulp stink of slow decay,

the hotsweet cotton candy smell of Kudzu blossoms mixed into cut hay and horse manure from the farm a mile away,

the swish of pine needles,

boughs and branches scraping like bows on heavy strings,

the occasional dove somewhere beyond the gurgling creek that sings whoowee whoo whoo whoo winding me down from relaxed alertness to relaxed then drowsy then barely awake.

.

I’ll sleep for five minutes

then wake for twenty

again and again and again

until a deer shows,

until it gets too dark,

until I’ve enjoyed such quiet peace all day long that moving even any seems a waste of all I’ve done to keep so still.

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