I once shot a bird while my mother cried
A single pellet in a winged angel, stolen from the unforgiving sky
Neither burial nor pyre brings ease to her mind
for her boy shot a bird,
and she saw and she cried.
I held the rifle in front of me,
Its wood my flesh, aging and weary.
As I approached the pigeon bleeding, soon to be sleeping,
I laid a hand on maternal shoulders weeping.
The mechanics of life cocked bitterly in my hand
also ran red amongst feathers down into the thirsty earth once again.