The young fools drink in honor of
fiction, ale only. Save wine for the gods.
There is comradery through the distillation.
Daltonism prevents greens and reds
and shows the cumulonimbus as
a cluster of velvet gray.
The boys grow to bloated
proportions, hold their weapons
to the fields to attack the pheasants.
Warm, misled by distortion, the new
hunters guide the rifles past the flashes
of light in the distance.
Pheasants, sunset yet bereft of color,
ready to set the speed and hold
their young to wing. Darker
still, the cumulonimbus grows
impatient, sitting on fragile pockets
of turbulent air.
Shots fire down the line, each one
further off than the last. Feathers
drip dark black, pitter-patter on shoes
of fervor, while their young scatter past.
Some cock heads and kok kok kok, others
frantically escape in the shrubs.
Delta formations in the cumulonimbus
set fire to the electric particles, shooting
through a pheasant in flight, becoming cinders.
Rifles are dropped, rods of energy now
heavy mortars in the grass. Perhaps the fools
are relieved, no longer hunters.
Was the illumination through down
a release for the dying bird, now
held by the head and
paraded by the accompanying
hound? Or perhaps it was
pins in each feather,
a weight meant for each
hunter in colors they
could not see.
(written in Feb 2010)