"Duck Hunter."
This place of reeds and alder was made by the river,
though I name it my blind, hide with decoys and my dog,
it is his whole life.
Snow begins, the noise I make for ducks is old, old.
They come, thin flocks shaped and whimsy, looking for a place
to land, cackle over food, the water gives.
Within the depths of this storm, the birds
are magic in front of my gun, dead, alive or falling,
I call again knowing they will come.
This is where we all are now.
The dog loves me wet, shivering, and reckless because the moment
is pulled out at its end.
I might be crying for this is sadness, the time of coming,
going, being there, here, now, and before, which cannot last.
The air stops, it smells of snow.