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Slowing down in vertigo sleet. Our portal
Into the killing.
His old man’s barn and the snagging fence, pushed us away
From its overlook.
It was a barrel-gun dawn, becoming a crockett eve.
We were stuck in Frost’s stare, and his clench
promised to choke us all.
Hunter green caps and drab olive overcoats, we dug through
The snow piles with our stalagmite toes.
Tonight we were picking for damper geese.
There was no change in the catatonic ore above,
The moon spirited its rise, and we were polite enough
Not to notice.
Blocked giddy, no hope of dodging, and whistles to silence the pack.
I felt for it, the duck’s neck, and held it lifeless with my nails.
No change, no change in the season.
Apple cores erode in the scrunched soil.
I fleeced the kills and swung them from my sack.
Relief, relief is what closes in, and onto us predators.
Back to the stuck house.
Then off to go picking again.