Canadian snipers shoot Taliban
barely visible behind craggy
rocks. Their bodies launch, spin.
Wow! Eh! exclaims
the spotter. Only creatures I ever killed
When the frustrations of studying
got to me, I left the house for a bank
overlooking oak trees. They were there
sneaks hiding on the other side
of limbs. I sat down, a slight upward
angle. Might have been ashamed
I used a .410 shotgun instead
of a .22 rifle. I wasn’t though. Arlevia,
our cook, could get the buckshot out.
She wanted them. Quiet as the ground,
I waited them out, for their fear
to subside and them to skitter.
One posed on top of a limb
and I squeezed off a shot.
Fell to the ground
a soft thud. I retrieved each
one and the waiting game began
again. Did they mock me? On the way home
I felt the warmth of their bodies
in the back sack of my hunting jacket
staining the canvas, waiting for Arlevia’s
corn, okra, flour, tomatoes and potatoes
to bring their flavor to life.