by Sarah Summerville
The Season of Hope
I get in the truck at six in the morning
to watch for the hunters and give the base warning.
The ground is still frozen, itís too dark to see.
I sit at my station, in my hand, the CB,
on channel 13 with the squelch turned down low;
Darkness is lifting, the dash clock aglow.
This place is so sacred, the tenants so dear,
It makes my heart ache if they suffer with fear.
In a seat of great honor at the crossroads I wait
and vow to fulfill this incredible fate.
To protect and to nurture these innocent creatures,
they are my wards, but also my teachers.
Iíll listen and watch, do whatever I must
to reach the goal of attaining their trust.
The woman who dreamed up this wonderful place
sits, unaccustomed, to working the CB from the base.
She sends out directions over the squall.
Itís clear and itís soft; a dignified call.
Iím trying my best to do what is right,
but if I get lost, she shows me the light.
Sheís patient and constant and honest with me.
(I beat her at Scrabble, but then she beats me!)
Though, her level of worth, I hope to attain,
loyal to Hope I will ever remain.