Step where I step, he said, quick, quiet over oak root. The hushed path rose

to meet him. By footfall and rifle glint, rustle of hoof and pulp of blood,

he led me deep where the gut-shot buck had made its briary bed. Even from the shining

back of his scalp, I knew his face, shame-shadowed at his own poor aim,

at the animal’s pain grown shadow-long with the fall of dusk. Three times we neared

the deer, and each it heard our ragged breath and stood and lumbered beyond sight.

Come swamp’s edge he turned skyward. Gun on his back, he climbed the bur oak.

His eyes hungered over earth and found no sign. I watched from below.

He looked past light, past knowing. How the buck would die: slow

and alone in the mouth of the woods. The many ways it would become.

Scarlet waxing the moon of a tick. Blackberry sheen of a buzzard’s coat.

II.

Heat pearled our skin as we followed up the mountain’s face.

His idea, to tie our coats to the trunks of trees. The clumsy knots

of their arms a gift, an embrace. Sophie so small that

only a sapling would do. We moved on, lightened, cooled.

The air thinned and the land went blue. How good it felt,

to toil awhile in sun for the sight of a rippling valley.

It was Christmas. Earth was new. Then dusk.

Then darkness like a minnow net. Then us, its catch.

Then the path swallowed by brush. Then, again,

the needling cold. Our arms were bare. We did not know

he was afraid. Even as he climbed the white pine

to search for some sign of home. Even as we shivered

on the earth below. Look how he sways in the treetop,

we thought.

See how his head brushes the sky.

","freeContentEncoded","textContent","published","strategy","curl-ready","locked","deletedAt","isSyncedFromOwnBlog","original","duplicatesCount","duplicateVersion","originalArticleId","errorsCount","appearance","color","backgroundColor","shortSummary","A father and child go on a hunt that ends in frustration, then later, on a cold Christmas hike, the father climbs a tree to search for home.","summary","The poem describes a father leading his child on a hunt for a wounded buck, which ultimately escapes. Later, during a Christmas hike, the father climbs a tree to find signs of home while the child observes from below, unaware of his fear.","bullets",[183,184,185,186],"A father and child search for a gut-shot buck, but it eludes them.","The father expresses shame and sadness over the animal's pain and his poor aim.","During a cold Christmas hike, the father climbs a tree to look for home.","The child watches him sway in the treetop, unaware of his fear.","persons",[189],"Sophie","places",[],"words",318,"sentiment",-1.5,"subject","unknown","meta",{"_200":201,"_202":203,"_231":212},"type","bee:get-index-of-articles","schedule",{"_14":204,"_37":-5,"_205":206,"_67":-5,"_207":208,"_209":210,"_211":212,"_213":73,"_70":71,"_196":24,"_214":-5,"_215":71,"_164":165,"_216":217,"_39":217,"_218":219,"_220":73,"_221":222,"_41":217,"_223":71,"_69":99,"_224":225,"_226":-5,"_227":228,"_229":-5,"_230":-5},"e3d35f69-ea7f-42b4-bf9b-7b5139cb0abc","npub","npub13dhektgqh58xmgs8rga7elndr37jfy2x7qyrwt0ex0f9g0wakaqsy5ukzz","jobId","26b9bb95-681d-4c7d-a973-6ef2bb3503b0","order",1,"rssUrl","https://www.theatlantic.com/world/","system","userRef","autosign","syncedAt","2025-12-15T19:29:27.600Z","frequency","daily","isOwnBlog","nextRunAt","2026-02-22T19:34:15.765Z","autopublish","sourceVariant","rss","systemVariant","scheduleVariant","scraping-bee-classic-proxy","retryArticlesIds","ownershipConfirmedAt","dataSourceUrl","eventId","eafae9228df4aabdbe932b3f3dfaabd0a912ee84f91c664ce3a9fb94bcbae4c5","nostrRootEvent","event",{"_14":233,"_237":238,"_239":210,"_67":240,"_253":252,"_157":254,"_255":256},"sig","747fdddd583c6b2c4f615f26cf7a028e54c744a6a737e9d5216e1bf8750ff084835059e85648f89b2fc92b64a0529fd3bf9055e5e2ad535d01f322f107f0ad47","kind",[241,242,243,247,250],[196,143],[29,150],[244,245,24,246],"a","30023:8b6f9b2d00bd0e6da2071a3becfe6d1c7d249146f008372df933d2543dddb741:28e4432c-7e06-448a-b47d-54d120ffd5a3","mention",[248,249],"client","Layer3.press",[251,252,24],"p","8b6f9b2d00bd0e6da2071a3becfe6d1c7d249146f008372df933d2543dddb741","pubkey","Two Portraits of My Father in a Tree\nA poem\n\n\nnostr:naddr1qvzqqqr4gupzpzm0nvksp0gwdk3qwx3manlx68rayjg5duqgxukljv7j2s7amd6pqqjrywr9xs6rxvnr95mk2vpk956rgwrp943rgdmy956ngep3xgcxvenyx4snxgqtxfl ","created_at",1771788900,"authorNPub","markdown","Step where I step, he said, quick, quiet over oak root. The hushed path rose\n\nto meet him. By footfall and rifle glint, rustle of hoof and pulp of blood,\n\nhe led me deep where the gut-shot buck had made its briary bed. Even from the shining\n\nback of his scalp, I knew his face, shame-shadowed at his own poor aim,\n\nat the animal’s pain grown shadow-long with the fall of dusk. Three times we neared\n\nthe deer, and each it heard our ragged breath and stood and lumbered beyond sight.\n\nCome swamp’s edge he turned skyward. Gun on his back, he climbed the bur oak.\n\nHis eyes hungered over earth and found no sign. I watched from below.\n\nHe looked past light, past knowing. How the buck would die: slow\n\nand alone in the mouth of the woods. The many ways it would become.\n\nScarlet waxing the moon of a tick. Blackberry sheen of a buzzard’s coat.\n\nII.\n---\n\nHeat pearled our skin as we followed up the mountain’s face.\n\nHis idea, to tie our coats to the trunks of trees. The clumsy knots\n\nof their arms a gift, an embrace. Sophie so small that\n\nonly a sapling would do. We moved on, lightened, cooled.\n\nThe air thinned and the land went blue. How good it felt,\n\nto toil awhile in sun for the sight of a rippling valley.\n\nIt was Christmas. Earth was new. Then dusk.\n\nThen darkness like a minnow net. Then us, its catch.\n\nThen the path swallowed by brush. Then, again,\n\nthe needling cold. Our arms were bare. We did not know\n\nhe was afraid. Even as he climbed the white pine\n\nto search for some sign of home. Even as we shivered\n\non the earth below. Look how he sways in the treetop,\n\nwe thought.\n\nSee how his head brushes the sky.","freeMarkdown","kind1EventId","kind30023EventId","3bb79d2e403a167ad255831d74bf48f75bd6997ed221bd906ff74f07f2b44871","kind30023",{"_14":263,"_237":266,"_239":267,"_67":268,"_253":252,"_157":282,"_255":256},"3f2646eaf6bf13b9594bbb865e163fafa8ee4acb6ae9c4476a9d2b271042d7f29424aeb69e150b83f2c7ab91a0f722b66a2af14b52a94d46bce663180e863400",30023,[269,272,273,276,277,279,280,281],[270,271],"r","https://news.layer3.press/articles/28e4432c-7e06-448a-b47d-54d120ffd5a3",[26,143],[274,275],"published_at","1771779600",[29,150],[278,138],"d",[179,144],[248,249],[251,252,24],"Two Portraits of My Father in a Tree\nThe poem describes a father leading his child on a hunt for a wounded buck, which ultimately escapes. Later, during a Christmas hike, the father climbs a tree to find signs of home while the child observes from below, unaware of his fear.\n - A father and child search for a gut-shot buck, but it eludes them.\n - The father expresses shame and sadness over the animal's pain and his poor aim.\n - During a cold Christmas hike, the father climbs a tree to look for home.\n - The child watches him sway in the treetop, unaware of his fear.\n","publishedToNostr","htmlContentKind30023","