He rose with the dawn, the cool morning air,
A quiet peace in his soul, no burden to bear.
With rod in hand or rifle at side,
He’d roam through the woods, the earth as his guide.
The river was where his spirit would roam,
Casting his line, finding peace, feeling home.
The forest knew him, the call of the wild,
A heart full of wonder, the soul of a child.
Now the deer won’t flee and the fish won't bite,
The quiet has settled where once was delight.
But we’ll feel him still, in the rustling trees,
In the whisper of wind, in the flow of the seas.
For hunting and fishing were more than a sport—
They were moments of stillness, a kind of resort.
A way to connect, to the land, to the sky,
A way to be whole, as time passed by.
Though we can’t see him, his spirit remains,
In the ripples of rivers, the whispers of plains.
He’s gone from this world, but his memory’s near,
In every wild corner, he’ll always be here.
