Deer seasons in Vermont proliferate.
Bow season, mostly,
with a modicum of luck,
Rifle Season, when snipers wait
in ambush, in the arms of mother maples,
eyes to telescopic sights effective
at a thousand yards;
discreetly gender-bent for Doe and Buck
distinctions only for the prey,
(who haven't got a prayer).
We add insult to injury with
Crossbow and Muzzle Loader Seasons,
for hunters with a flare for drama,
favorites of deer with a nose
for human history.
Every armchair marksman
has a deer-in-the-headlights story
about success in what might be dubbed:
where the dumb buck or flighty doe
bolts from the treeline into easy range
of RV, pickup, SUV and minivan,
to which season we ought to add
for the sake of Pentagon and Weapons Industries:
Uzi, Scud and
Smart Bomb Seasons,
and for the Toys & Little Warmongers Industry:
Slingshot, Wrist Rocket,
Frisbee and Rubber Knife Seasons.
Not to slight the Arts, we'd institute:
Haiku & Limerick Season,
Tap, Salsa & Ballroom Dancing Season,
plus Chopsticks-on-Piano, Violin Lessons,
Little Thespians and Portraits-on-Velvet
For harried parents and the lunatic fringe,
there always have been:
Hanging by the Heels,
Pop-Gun, Screaming Child,
and Dripping Faucet Seasons.
The most obvious cause to hunt
the hapless creatures in Vermont
is to annoy them,
so we urge creation of:
Bad Joke Season,
Political Primary Season,
Talk Show, Scratch & Sniff,
*/^@# and Verbal Abuse Seasons.
We've heard deer speak among themselves
that we mostly prefer to kill them utterly
for this reason -
what could be more torturous
than living on into the winter holidays,
Little Drummer Boy, Shep Fields
& His Kazoo Orchestra's Greatest Hits,
and Interfaith Kitchen Band Seasons?