Sunday Hunt

Humming cicadas 

Blanket a certain plain,

Where newborn reeds tussle

And a lone doe waits

I watch at the balcony as

The shadow of a dim tree

Shrouds her left eye

Her right is illuminated in

An amber glow,

I expect a prehistoric

Beetle is trapped inside

She is ancient,

And tired

The squall of the 

The men returning 

Is far too loud,

The doe will not stand 

this

She will run soon enough,

So, I continue to set the table

Remembering what mother said:

Small spoons for the children

Large for the men 

A stuffed quail gawks 

At the boys, gorging in 

A feast not yet

Fully prepared

The china shrieks with

Each glutinous helping,

Candle lights dart to avoid

Reaching forearms

One of the boys runs,

Rifle in hand, to the

Outlook, hollering 

“There’s the fucker that 

Ran off”

He fires without

Hesitancy,

Leaving her to pool 

Amongst the reeds

The cicadas quiet as

He looks to me,

“What? You couldn’t pet her

Anyway”