Upon shooting a dove

Upon shooting a dove


Trodding the gray slag piles
the green hills
along the sluggish stream.

With pumping wings
the dove flew in
barely distinguishable in the haze.
Place and custom seized me
I rent the air with burning powder -
the dove plummeted.

Tangled slope
startled water
there in a bowl of grass
wings outstretched
shaken from life
a bead of brilliant blood
upon its head.

False predator
risking nothing
taking all.

This was sacrilege.