Standing in November (as the dead 
Brown color seeps into the land), 
In waders and in water, with a red

Cap bright in the low sun, and in his hand 
The shotgun ready for the duck-quick 
Blue eruption and the wide wings fanned

To beat the air then as the click- 
Bang-spatter of the loud kill comes— 
The hunter waits in tension in the thick

Stiff grass and cattails, and he hums 
In expectation as the white seeds trail 
The wind. Time almost numbs