I hear them
In the first crisp light
Hunters, saluting the sunrise
Shotgun blasts resound like bombshells
In a perfect and silent dawn
Tireless in their efforts to rid
The country of the contrite dove
And dangerous pheasant
Gunfire so close, or the day so clear
I feel the reverb along frosted windows.
What drives some to create causalities?
To divine death?
Launch war during peace?
Seek solace in scoring victims.