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.


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