First
light, and he follows the levee
two-track
across the spill-water culvert.
A
beaver hears him and slaps the lake.
Rings
ripple out across the languid surface.
Three
crows wing high above the mist
rising
from the water. They call
down
day to the long-leaf pine forest.
A
startled tom gobbler
flurries
toward him from a red oak
so
loudly he remembers
a
Black-Hawk helicopter
and
a hot LZ in Iraq.
No comments:
Post a Comment