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.
