Morning. Winter-wren song.
The neighbor's hound
coils his long chain
around a river beech. There is
no river. The creek
is dry. Lord, the alders.
Lord, the hunters
in orange fatigues
like fires asleep in tree-
stands. Fall trees. Late
fall, irretrievable.
Leaves whispering down
to understory. Hunters
climbing down from
trees. Warbler and
winter wren. Shooting,
singing. Lord, I am one half
of morning, the world
the other, turning orange
and falling. Wren song,
hunter song. Rifle shots
tearing awake the winter.
I should fall apart
better. Rise. And curse
the hunters in the trees.
Curse the falling, that
winter half of me
getting bigger, every
year, Lord,
and falling longer.
322 Review publishes provocative emerging and established artists. Conceived and operated by former Rowan University graduate students of the Master of Arts in Writing Program, 322 Review is aggressively seeking the best fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and mixed media works of visual art.
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