Hunting

Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red

As a flash of brown fur leaped up by his side.

My shotgun smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.

 

I shot the mallard drake, clean in the head.

His plumage white and grey fell as he died,

And Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red.

 

The dog picked him up, and brought the drake’s

Form spotted with blood. I looked at where he lie,

My shotgun smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.

 

“We can mount him!” My father said,

He was proud of me, since I had not cried

As Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red.

 

The steel in my hands was black, and cold, and dead.

My freezing fingers quaking as I dried

My shotgun. It smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.

 

Decked in camouflage from toe to head

We waited, hoping ducks would pass us by.

Rodney’s cigar smoldered ashy red.

My shotgun smelled of smoke, and oil, and lead.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world

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