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On Christmas Day my finest gift, of all the gifts about me strewn,
was my bow and arrow set which from mighty oak was hewn.
Though the arrows were tipped with rubber and the bow was strung with string
to nine year old eyes like mine they were weapons for a king.
Immediately after the feast which served as Christmas dinner
I set out on a hunt, paunch a little larger, but mind a little keener.
I searched the ground quite carefully for sign of hidden pits,
stalking in a crouch; low and silent Indian style,
ever alert and arrows ready all the while.
To my left there came a rustling sound as I stood unmoving near a tree,
then lazily a rabbit hopped by…not more than twenty feet from me.
So daring this little bunny was as at some grass he stopped to eat.
He turned his back upon me with disdain and ate…not more than fifteen feet from me.
I notched my arrow in the bow, so slow and skillfully neat.
I aimed. I shot! I missed by nearly twenty feet.
I advanced a yard and shot again. The arrow struck a distant tree.
This second miss made me angrier that I thought it possible to be.
I drew back my foot to kick that little bunny sitting not so far away,
but alas, my foot entangled in my bow, and on the earth I no longer stood…but lay.
Then the furry little bunny, finished dining, hopped away
and all that was left in the orchard was a little boy at play.
About this poem
largely a true story
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"My Bow and Arrow Narrative" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 18 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/103895/my-bow-and-arrow-narrative>.