Finding neither rabbits nor fowl,

Morris took aim at any creature

that scrambled along the ground

or hopped high in early summer oaks


Lester let hang the barrel of a single shot 22

over his forearm,

and tiring of the afternoon

and the blasts of Morris’s four ten,

climbed uphill into the woods

until he reached a small circle

of feathery grass in a clearing


As he stepped into it, an object flashed,

collided with the middle of his forehead,

flattened him to gaze up wild eyed at speckless blue


Faraway, he heard Morris’s shotgun

still making random mischief

Unable to move a bone, he slept and dreamed

flights of birds crisscrossing above him


After a blank space, Lester,

a small jagged cut sorely coagulating

above his wayward brows,

staggered into the kitchen of the shack,

not knowing exactly how he got there,

and swore to Morris’s girlfriend, Gertrude,

he had chugged no licker out there in the woods,

but truth be told he had been popped

smack dab between the eyes

by a lone, wild assed bird that was itself

truly drunk or just plain old loco


At this telling, Gertrude gazed

out the window above the sink

as if to search for Morris trudging

up the muddied gravel road,

gun barrel scatter slung over his shoulder,

wailed a long high-pitched lament

of hunter and hunted,

the sound of such grieved Lester no end