“It’s friggin’ nuts, Thanksgiving is two
weeks away,” he said as we drank coffee
waking up to hunt. He’s thirty, I’m seventy-two.
My sense of time moving in seasons
and Thanksgiving and Christmas and
Easter. Those matters of return not in
the linear realm of one year then another.
But therein lies the mystery of time
and eternity, the Janus-faced god,
the one who looks behind-ahead simultaneously.
I am an old man, he a young man.
He hunts where I no longer go.
The body not matched to the desires of the heart,
dreams impossible to follow that still come
to me. I suppose this is called aging,
this sense of time passing, the return of seasons,
this sipping coffee in the morning,
the conversations in the dark before the hunt begins.
-Byron Hoot
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