A year’s worth of fodder emerged from the water When the puck was found in the Swede Even the kindest of hunters has to wonder If we were all wet when we did the deed
The answer is sound — it was laid on the ground Well before the first clue There it did lie for all to espy Untouched by us — but not, perhaps, by you
A branch of the spring runs by the thing I used it to keep the snow track-free From the watery muck, I tossed the puck Into powder at the base of the tree
I remember worrying, my frozen brow furrowing That the slit where it entered would show I soon backed away and on a later day We received a fresh dusting of snow
With so little room, we all did assume It would be a snap for hunter and hound We did not bet that it would end up wet Before it was pitchforked and found
What happened? Who knows? The mystery grows Did a hunter’s rake nudge it toward water? Flung in a trice? Slid under the ice? Moved thence by a free-roaming otter?
(I may be a dipstick but a pig mug with lipstick Is all the prize wore this year I musta’ been inhalin’ that year in Phalen But I learned — no edibles near)
The Swede’s mighty spring underlies everything Sucked the puck to a venue remote Now we know, be careful with the throw Because the prize may pay — but it doesn’t float
Copyright 2009 Pioneer Press.