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November Sunday mornings

they stand huddled near the ponds

and in syncopated ritual release the dogs,

retrievers gold and black

that immediately take their stance

like the rifle boasted on the back

of the hunter who bears it as proudly

as the cross he wears upon his brow

seeking communion with a nature

that his heart knows no residence with now  


The autumn ritual begins

with the laying of death across the land –

the dogs set to retrieve the taste the blood

of victim without mate,

as the hunters chest rises higher upwards

as if to view the heavens pearly gates

they give honor to their fathers,

setting example to their sons;

forgetting the holiness of the spirit

in the life taken by their guns


The Sunday mass of blood completed

the foggy gray skies begin to take in light

and the hunters count deaths in bullets

fired with and without aim,

recording the bodies of the fallen

to save them from a certain shame

in the face of those who will gather

again in garb exposing a vest of red

to warn their mortal selves

with bullet they too would lie cold and dead  




copyrighted 2008