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