Near Miss
Oct 15 2022
At first, I thought firecrackers
had made those dull repeated thuds,
small bangers, bottle rockets, cherry bombs.
I pictured kids
in the gravel pits
killing time,
or good ol' boys
who never really grew up
with a juvenile idea of fun.
When I realized
it was guns.
Deer season,
when hunters in orange vests
prowl the woods
or lurk in sturdy blinds
and fire off at random.
Or so the sound makes it seem.
It's dangerous out there
every fall.
And strikes me
as essentially unfair:
firearms that kill
from a safe sanitized distance;
and skittish deer,
whose lives depend
on agility and speed,
an exquisite sense
of vigilance
hearing
scent.
Not to mention
bad aim.
So I'm watchful
when I'm out with the dogs
on our customary trail.
Which is where they found the big buck
dead and disembowelled.
Who must have staggered off,
limping badly
dripping blood
before lying down to die.
Whose carcass excited
my madly barking dogs,
sniffing avidly
as they edged in closer.
Turkey vultures hovered.
Cantankerous crows
annoyed at our presence
were protesting noisily
circling overhead.
And was that rustling in the underbrush
a fox scampering off?
There might even have been wolves,
skulking in the distance
cautiously observing,
unaccustomed
to waiting for their turn.
You never know, with wolves,
too smart and stealthy
to give themselves away.
And the hunter,
commiserating with his buddies
for the near miss.
Next time, he mutters,
reloading his gun
before hunkering down to wait.
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