A hunter grows in this place
Between rings on the tail
And sleep turning sun to flowers.
November bleeds blankness.
A dog slobbers in its waking.
A cat meows extended scowls.
The hunter’s son murmurs
To think anyone could kill a thing so pretty.
Finale descends without grace.
Bumble bees thrum fear.
In the jacket, the tail hangs from one shot-bag.
A briar’s hapless as a song.