WEBVTT

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"Duck Hunter."

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This place of reeds and
alder was made by the river,

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though I name it my blind,
hide with decoys and my dog,

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it is his whole life.

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Snow begins, the noise I
make for ducks is old, old.

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They come, thin flocks shaped
and whimsy, looking for a place

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to land, cackle over
food, the water gives.

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Within the depths of
this storm, the birds

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are magic in front of my
gun, dead, alive or falling,

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I call again knowing
they will come.

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This is where we all are now.

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The dog loves me wet, shivering,
and reckless because the moment

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is pulled out at its end.

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I might be crying for this is
sadness, the time of coming,

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going, being there, here, now,
and before, which cannot last.

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The air stops, it
smells of snow.

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