Huntsman at Noon

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I cannot see them but think of their soft
Dark breasts, the quickening heart
Shaking the  shining plumage
With its  shimmering vanes
And pinions, the mad clock
Of being a being-

The Ptarmigan’s tongue.
The Arctic Tern’s angelic glide.
The boom of the Bittern
On the midnight reservoir

All of these gain entry
Sputtering mortality
Cordite has no odor
Nor  does this memory
Can I kill by naming a thing?

Go fetch.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 all rights reserved

 

 

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