Deer Prints

Broken trees bend in a familiar meadow. A cloudlessly blue Mitten sky hangs bright. Covering unsteady ground. But not taking any notes.


Because nature keeps her secrets. Right along with mine. Not where the crawdads sing. But, down in the holler. Where foxes play.


Fresh deer prints on the trail; vines stripped from all the pines. The ones pulled free and trimmed, to spark warmth in the chill of a star-filled Clinton County night.


Anticipation hangs. Like frozen exhalations in winter. Impatient for growth; hungry for the spring.


Sounds carry strange, caught in the grip of a Capitol City December. Voices echo harder; vibrations, they linger.


The songs of nature rhyme–strange words for a city boy caught out of his elements to absorb. But, he wants to sing along. And embrace a rhythm different from what he found down on that dirty Boulevard. 


Beat-up leather boots, worn across too many hard miles, marry Michigan mud–one step at a time. A journey of a million smiles sometimes begins with a Wayne’s City kiss. And, you can’t rush the launch. 


Only fools linger in indecision; nature often favours the bold.


I am here.


And, I’m ready to fucking sing… 


About Typewriter Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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