Last Saturday of Gun Season

 

Who could?

December 5, 2020

 

Every few seconds

Shots crack, shatter the stillness

Unnerve the poor cur

 

Who pastes back his ears

And, when unnerved, cannot poop.

The men who kill deer

 

Stymied by the rain, 

stayed home all week, but look out!

They’re back and blasting

 

Every few minutes

Somewhere, a shot is taken.

Any deer with brains

 

Not already blown

Would lie flat in a thicket

Burping up its cud

 

Waiting ‘til nightfall

When at last, it gets to stretch

Haul itself upright

 

Shake like a wet dog

And set out to find forage.     

I see them nightly

 

Tiptoe past the lens

Proud antlers shining bone-white

Eyes like shy headlights

 

Wise ghosts who know well

To walk when the woods are still

And men are asleep.