The Limit


We lug them in bunched by a neck cord;

blind heads drop, bills agape.

Mostly mallards, a few pintail and teal, wet, tousled.

When I try to smooth the ruffled feather-bellies,

my hand is surprised by warmth, and limp response

to an empty fondle. I remember

their quick release from flight,

the arc broken to sprawl,

and blunt aftersound to the clean shot

that brought them down, and let their beauty go.



Places I've Been

The following links are virtual breadcrumbs marking the 27 most recent pages you have visited in If you want to remember a specific page forever click the pin in the top right corner and we will be sure not to replace it. Close this message.