Watchers at the gates of dawn

We hunters are the watchers at the gates of dawn,
where there is no eve, no noon, or morn.
We do not rest, we wait for first light,
The dawn sings in a voice of amber, the morning is surely coming.
The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped;
The heavy fog lifts the skies and pushes the hills apart,
But when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was born again.
The colors of fall surrounds our stands,
With leaping carp the slough is full;
With singing thrushes the green swamps are alive.
The water grasses are bent level at the waist
Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.
We rise to taste the dawn, and find that love in hunting shine again today.
We hunters feel that glory in our heart.
For nights death is dawn