Friday, January 21, 2011

Day 156, Duck hunting?! poem?!

I've hemmed and hawed and as I write this the poem has not been written. I had ducks for pets as a child... I don't like guns... but I grew up with grand ducks and geese adorning our walls, pridefully shot and stuffed. So what way do I approach this. As a proud southern girl whose Papaw taught her to shoot a gun when she was 8 or the other girl, the one that cried rivers when Sue my first duck died... Thanks to Brad Ewing for the challenge! :P

PS I slapped this in here but enjoy, I think I still wavered in the poem but such is life!

The Duck Hunt

Be he Mallard
or a brown speckled she,
he waits ever so quietly.
There's the cold of the black
gun metal rested in his palm,
it's slick, greasy barrell a solid
reminder of his task.

He sits in a boat swishing too
and fro in the muddy southern waters
tufts of polyester camo waving like
little prayer flags all around him
a bubble of secret, hidden intent.

He loves this place, this quiet
this sudden cold from an Eastern wind
invading the moist heat that autumn leaves.
He reveres this place. It's holy ground.
The quietly lapping waters, the echo
of acorns bumping against the weathered metal
of the boat. The smell of coffee, earth and oil.
Heaven maybe, if a duck flys by.

And one does. He sees through the opening
in the distance, through ice cold binoculars,
his mind hears the gentle calls before his
ears can register the waft of wind under feathers
the murmuring calls of a string of ducks.
His hand tenses on his gun. He grabs for the
little cylinder meant to fool them. He blows and
calls them nearer. Here I am he says, hiding.
All of the quiet now an amplifier for an arrival.

They fly just ahead and above. He aims his weapon,
sets his sight and says a small prayer. He wants
the duck to fall almost as much as he wanted them
to arrive, almost that much. And one does.

The flock scatters, squawking. He takes another
shot and misses, they are gone. The air is warmer.
He is out of hiding as he goes to retrieve his bounty.
He adores this place, this quiet dominion.
He places the duck in the boat and paddles back to the blind
removing his heavy camoflauged coat, easier now.

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