There's a man I never met before
yet I know him just the same
and think about him often times
as I pass by a ruined tree stand.

This deer stand I first saw long ago,
a few boards clinging to a dying cedar
with most of it upon the ground
slowly burning by decay.

The stand was old when I was young.
I suspect its builder was long gone,
his sons, perhaps, were near my age
and like me have since become bald or gray
as the last boards clutching the tree,
boards which creak like old joints in the wind.

That builder, I can almost see,
sitting up there hunting deer
with cold numb fingers and toes
on this ridge which never changes.
He, too, cherished this lonely place.

I see him watching grey squirrels play
and listening as wood ducks flew by,
slowly wiping a drippy nose,
carefully scanning the landscape
in search of antlers
so very long ago.

I guess like me he slowly aged
and counted time by hunting seasons
as trees overtook nearby fields
and his father's generation slipped away
while the years piled up unnoticed.

Until one autumn he failed to come.
No repairs to his favorite stand.
And the forest likely hardly noticed
for the land and game abides
and keeps abiding.

This old man who I never met.
This old man I have come to know.
This old man who once passed this way.
I know him for I have become him.