In December's back yard crystalline quietude,
A silver-tailed squirrel
Leaped startled from a bush,
Scampered 'cross the lawn,
Bounding from snow drifts to
Green-patch grasses,
Sprintily dashing toward a tree.
Without a Christmas moment's hesitation,
Not the slightest troubling beam of light,
The old man raised an imaginary rifle to his shoulder —
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
His shatter-blast voice
Smashed like a fist
Through wintry air.
Smiling briefly with smug satisfaction,
Momentary blood-lust sated,
Power glittering his 86-year-old eyes,
He walked into the house,
Forgetting his envisioned deed,
On to other things.
The quickly squirrel dartly-dashed
A-skitter up the tree,
Perky-eared and misty-breathing fast,
Watching flicky-tailed and
Speedy-eyes intently
Til we'd gone.
Shocked even to this moment,
I felt three bullets rip through fur
Tearing my suddenly insides into howly-fires.
I lay legs a-shiver-twitching,
Heart race jaggy,
Eyes a-fluttering,
Light-sight bleary, dimly fading,
Darkling mountain-shades descending,
Bleeding flowers on the snow.
Why did he shoot?
What had I done?
Who had I hurt or shamed?
Is the life in me
Not the same as the life in him?
Apparently
He had
Not yet
Received
The
Message.
Gone, yes,
Distant-gone
But here,
That place
That time
Still brooding,
A moment in
Wintry air.