Chapter 2

NATURE'S HAND

Tommy struggled with the snow
And found his travel very slow
On snow shoes just made for this
And felt the cold burn his chest.

The cold seemed very far below
The coldest days that he could know
Yet his escape outside the cabin
Was still the sweetest thing to happen.

That cabin had become his jail
But winter winds would sorely fail
To keep him fast a prisoner,
This he swore and knew for sure.

Once outside the winter air
Should have cautioned, have a care
But Tommy had the nerve of youth
And blazed his way to show the proof.

On this trek without a path
He feared no living epitaph
And found his way to mountains rim
Which he would trace back home again.

The slightest wind that brushed his face
Did not betray, by any trace,
His approach to what he found,
An ancient scene and awful sound.

Before him there, against the wall,
Fully eight feet, standing tall,
Was a moose of knightly state
With rack and eyes to meet his fate.

Six wolves had come to corner him
And though worn with bleeding skin
He still was holding with his pride
The wolves at bay, that snarling tribe.

Tom, with rifle at his side
Raised it fast to blast the hide
Of the wolf that seemed to lead
And fired again his hunter's deed.

Two wolves down on bloody ground
      the others set to run
And the moose close to the wall
      did not fear the gun.

With rack erect in mountain light
      he stood his ground alone
And Tom then aimed and shot him there
      And prayed his spirit home.

Tom cut off a quarter back
And looked upon that noble rack
And thought how better it would he
If Tom, the man, had set him free.

Tom tied the quarter to his back
And watched the motionless wolf pack
Out of range but looking on,
They seemed to sing a forlorn song.

Tommy spat and heard it crack
      frozen to the ground
And ran his glove across his nose
      which caused him then to frown.
He had not felt this gloved hand
      on his face or nose
And puzzled in a gaunt expression
      as a fear arose.

Thoughts went back to northern tales,
Of reprobates and winter gales
That froze the very air to breathe
And lonely widows left to grieve.

Of how the north with all its gold
Tempted greenhorns young and old
To brave the elements at hand
In this savage, brutal land.

And now for all his hearty youth
This young man might find the truth,
"That no one can tempt nature's hand
In such a mortal, hellish land."

~Robert E Browne~