Shadowkiller

We four are the only dark things

in this sun-washed wasteland;

me in my summer skin,

him in his usual brown,

the crow,

the gun.

Hardness creeps into his jaw

and my kneecaps quake,

but I look on as he lifts

the lethal length of barrel

which, but a moment ago,

was content to

blast only bottles from the sky.

He pivots at the shoulders,

leading the silent silhouette

across the cyan stretch

of heaven.

A snapping hiss sends swift death

out and up

quicker than sight.

One black shape becomes many

in a shattering of feathers like a

breaking bottle

without the sound.

The wing-shot angel

stumbles from the sky into

a tumbleweed Eden,

and I clap my hands and laugh

to drown the question of what part I played.

I wonder what kind

of curse

might be growing in those weeds

now that three dark things remain--

killer,

accomplice,

and gun.