Many years ago, living in Texas, I would occasionally go hunting with a family member in Colorado. He had a large property west of Colorado Springs and he had built a small cabin that would accommodate four hunters at a time. If you went with him you walked a half mile up hill from where you had to park your vehicle. He wouldn’t allow one closer to the cabin. You could only take what you packed in. Hunting with this relative, you hunted game by walking, slipping up on an elk or a deer as close as you could get with out spooking the animal. You could walk all day and not get a decent shot, one that a hunter would take. You needed to be both a good shot with whatever weapon you were carrying and a pretty good stalker if you wanted to bring home the bacon, as it were. That’s the way I grew up hunting. And I have hunted black tail in the Marfa and Ft Davis areas of Texas the same way. So I remember the first time a couple of friends took me out to check their feeders in the Texas white tail countryside. They put out corn and other feeds before deer season so the deer would walk up to the feeders and eat and they kept checking and restocking the feed troughs so the deer would keep coming back and therefore would keep feeding from those troughs well into deer season. I didn’t know hunters did this and I didn’t know they built blinds as close to the feeders as they could get them so they could get a direct, pointblank shot as the deer fed. After going out with them and listening to their conversations, I wrote this poem. It’s just a poem and doesn’t reflect my thinking, on guns or hunting, merely my thinking on blinds and feeders. It would be a different if we needed these animals for food but we don’t. This could as easily be about big boy’s toys. It’s just a poem, of sorts. The Hunt Sportsmen on a hunt for small white-tailed deer, big rough men, sporting tattoos, hunting knives, thirty-ought-sixes with scopes, nine millimeter side arms, and big men’s boots with long sleeved shirts and expensive wrist watches wearing big hats and give-me caps. Capable men herding four-wheel drive pickup trucks and SUVs down winding, dusty ranch roads to blinds set up close to feeding troughs, death camps for timid deer who come quiet and unsuspecting to feed on pellets when hunters hid in blinds wait in ambush at point blank range for their helpless prey. Afterwards men brag of skill and exceptional shots as they rehash their endurance of hardship and patience in cold weather, under stress as they haul their gutted kill to lockers to be turned into sausage and roasts before heading home to celebrate the holidays and good cheer with family and friends over big meals of turkey and dressing with cranberry sauce and all the trimmings of a bountiful harvest. Men who unwrap and show off new rifles and shotguns dropped off by Santa on his quest to bring Christmas joy and happiness to children everywhere. Sportsmen ready to defend the Constitution the Second Amendment And next year’s kill of white tailed deer lead unknowing to their Christmas slaughter.