Rifle Poem :: Poetry Poems

run lowTheres a crack in the air, and Im split by the soundthe twinkling deadly still until its broken by another crack.A yearn sinuous echo hangs in the air,so physical I office try to wave it away like smoke.Then a triad and fourth crack, and Im on my feet,even though shots arent unheard of in catch season,these rural woods overfull with deer. But instead of this,I pretend of the uneven unpolished grain in the stockof my first rifle, the freight of it on the shoulder,the trigger worn dull with use. That first sighting with the left(p) eyelooking out. wandering through the sights the feel of the boltin the hand as it snapped back, slid forward in its pathand locked, readying the magazine as it lifts into the chamber,secured, prepared. A second snap and its released,out into the world where besides a second before there was nothing,not even stillness. And wherefore the flood of world returns.