"The Shooting," "The Shooting."
I shot an otter because I had a gun.
The gun was loaned to me, you understand.
Perhaps I shot it merely for the fun.
Must everything have meaning and be planned?
Afterwards I suffered penitence and dreamed my dachshund
died, convulsed in fright.
They look alike, but that's coincidence.
Within one week, my dream was proven right.
At first, I thought its death significant as punishment
for what I'd likely done.
But good sense said I had nothing to repent, that it
is natural to hunt for fun.
Was I unnatural to feel remorse?
I mourn the otter and my dog as one.
But superstition would not guide my course.
To prove that I was free, I bought the gun.
I dreamed I watched my frightened brother die.
Such fancy worried me, I must admit.
But at his funeral, I would not cry, certain that I was not
to blame for it.
I gave my friend the gun because of guilt
and feared then that my sanity was done.
On fear, he said, the myth of hell was built.
He shot an otter because he had a gun.