In Wayne county, in the winter,
When the ice swam slick,
A hunter, aiming, from his blind
Wished the brush were a touch less thick,
As he smoothly sailed the cross-hair,
At an angle up the hill, catching on a woolly shoulder
Already dreaming of recounting,
“Bam. Got ’em right in the brisket-
Went down like a boulder,”
The smoke poured out, and then the sound-
And when he searched ,
No blood was found.
So, shrugging, he reloaded,
and went back to his blind.
A mile and a half away,
past the Holmes county line,
a church-born woman in her buggy,
crawling across a gravel road,
wondering something, but never expecting
a tiny thumb of lead and chance,
meant for a prize buck,
to poke through the canvas top
and pluck her from her thoughts.