We reposed in the long grass
sweating,
as the scent of gunpowder
lingered in the air.

I rubbed my sore shoulder,
and sipped sweet bourbon
while we wondered after
the ghosts of deer.

Walking back to the road,
there were tourists wanting to
have their picture taken
in front of a sign that reads
"Matanzas Bay Next Exit."

They look happy in their
bright polyester shirts,
and sunglasses

“Do they know that Matanzas means massacre?”
Sheeeeet.  That what that means?

An armadillo lays dead by the truck.

You wanna eat it?
“How long do you think it’s been there?”
Wuddn’t there when we parked.
“Can’t we shoot a live one?”
Shoot the dead one if it makes you happy,
But lets eat him.