Morning sky burnished
Butternut under
Air swizzled flat
By impending winter’s
Celestial garlic press,
My windshield grouted
With hoarfrost,
I think of soldiers
Stashed like nuts
By the great
Five-sided squirrel
In EYERACK,
Yooper boys
In red sand
Dreaming of bucks,
Old days
When they were
Not prey, and
Prayed only for
Luck in the woods,
Mayhaps
A few good
Cribbage hands.