His camouflage is something; his brorm tweeds
Match with perfection frosted grass and weeds.
His ears pull flatter; not a muscle moves–
He’s caught a scent of which he disapproves,
And looming overlarge to his small ken,
There thunders past much armament and men.
Somehow he knows that he who hides in fear
The next few days may live another year.
by Ray Romine Monday, July 26, 1954
