Harold Quinn

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.