Tags
Colusa County, ducks, hunting, Inner Voice, Nature, opinions, Original Verse, poem, Poetry, Random, ritual, Sunday, wildlife, Writing
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
bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2008