Apples to Apples

My father's killed

two deer in his lifetime:

one intentionally

with his bow

on state park land

and one accidentally

with his sport utility vehicle

on the Palisades Interstate Parkway.

I was present for neither

but at ten years old

I followed him into woods

along an apple orchard

in the shadow 

of the Shawangunk Ridge

where he had permission

from a farmer to hunt.

It was so cold

beside that tree

where he waited

for the buck 

that wouldn't come

and I waited 

for the sun to rise

while it was darkest

before dawn.

It's the same now

three decades later:

Love is being 

someone's plan.