In the Quiet of Tradition

Deer camp whispers through swaying trees.
Laughter mingles with leaves.

Morning cold wraps unseen, holding bear stories quietly.
The fire crackles, memory’s embrace steady.

Logs turn to ash.
Love whispers in the smoke.

Morning whiskey lifts to shadows of those who came before.
Footsteps trace forgotten earth, time holding its breath.

A lone stump in the light guards secrets.
Shadows linger.

The gunshot familiar pierces still air,
years folded into this space.

Tradition binds us, roots tangled deep in old trees.
We disappear into moments untouched by time.

Still, hope catches on the breeze, a sunrise waiting.

--Vera