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A wisp of campfire smoke with hissing sticks and spewing ashes, the smell of sage, and I’m once again on the plains. My feet remember the path to the old homestead, nestled between the glass sheer creek and tumbleweeds. We hunted Antelope and made camp there. Not in my deepest dreams or my most prolific fancy did I believe I would miss these things. Now I am burdened by memories that should remain in a life where I bought them. I never liked the hunt but it was expected of me. Now my heart pines for the peace I found there and the firm sharp edge of night under an army of stars and the cold glories of dawn. I long to hear grass whisper or see the quaking trees…and us.
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2006-08-26 18:13:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.83333
Very descriptive and thought invoking of a time that you enjoyed but then again didn't enjoy the hunt. Was it because of the slaughter of the animal, or you were too cold;too young? The images bring forth sights and smells, and especially the sound of a camp fire. The smell of sage is pungent. There is a longing there for days past (when life was more simple). Perhaps you could have written a little more about "the hunt". i.e.: what kind. Now I am burdened by memories that should remain in a life where I bought them................typo? "bought" s/b "brought"? P.S.: what kind of trees "quake"? and who is "us"? Perhaps you can delve into that a bit more?
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