Last Call

Of doom and ducks.

Flocked V patterned pursuit over infinite expanse

Swoop and land, gaggles caught a midst a captured, resigned rabble

Faulty failing hearts, standing still flapping wide wings

spilling plucky peacock feathers along a mud trail

masterpiece spirals laid haphazard on a barnyard path

twisted, frolicking chicken heads peck solid strikes at waning walls

rolling snoated sloths in filth, piling in body parts and soiled decay

peep show peeks between slats of sprawling wooden cage

vowels flung over walls from frenzied, flailing puddles

mist blanketed with heavy stagnant mossy robed malaise

Blood drops, intervaled along a winding dust dark trail

curtains of emerald arbors surround a solitary narrow path

gazing with leaden step, following breadcrumbs in crimson

flesh encased thudding trombone, warning signs ahead

foreboding fog lifted ominously at brow height, laying up terror

rounding curve opens upon a clearing sight line

man walks upright, hands to the side, rifle shelved

with stringed duck swaying a back and forth spray

red pin pools soaking to ground, with each drifting step

drips inch farther and farther apart, deflating drooped chest

an empty high call thud against the quiet mourning air

Author's Note

I wrote this about a time I went to a local park, with barnyard animals. As I walked along a path I saw blood drops along a walking trail, alarming until I realized it was a popular spot for duck hunters.