Buckshot
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Buckshot
This is the last time I write about birds. Birds, who cares about your wings? Who admires your feathers? Who keeps you from entering my windows? I do. Birds, with your distinct calls, and your disregard for my birthday, and your nests all around. Where were you when my salad sucked? Where were you when I headed out of town? You have let me down.
For the hunt I take hats. My rubber boots, too. I eat flapjacks in the smoky haze of my pipes, my corncob pipes. I clean guns, and check things. I hunt in the night, like a blind alligator, like a stunned mouse.
Goodbye, all you sounds, all you flaps, all you guns. Goodbye to my deer stand, glowing in the light of the things I have done.
poem by Natalie Lyalin
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[...] from Natalie Lyalin can be found here and also at her blog where you can find more of her writing and links to her books. Like [...]
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