Hunting season opens
its jaws, and nature screams
in anguish.
In the grass a baby plays
with blades of grass, laughter
in tiny scuttling feet.
Heron flies, skimming treetops,
neck bent, hoarse-voiced, loud
as the crack of gunfire.
He’s old, the dog,
says nose hello to baby,
but the shrieks of joy fall on deaf ears.
Cat, dog, baby, lie on sun-dapples
beneath the trees; we listen
to the sounds that should not be.
Hunting season opensits jaws, and nature screamsin anguish. In the grass a baby playswith blades of grass, laughterin tiny scuttling feet. Heron flies, skimming treetops,neck bent, hoarse-voiced, loudas the crack of gunfire. He’s old, the dog,says nose hello to baby,but the shrieks of joy fall on deaf ears. Cat, dog, baby, lie on sun-dapplesbeneath the … Continue reading A day of mixed blessingsRead MoreJane Dougherty Writes
