Flesh and Feather

Drab brown drag bustling

with the snap and jitter

of twelve frames a second.

Squabble tweedling with dickering

kin scrabble-flickering for errant grain.

The farmers sons with .22 strength

strode to rid the field of pests. I watched

with disapproval as once common

sparrows met their lead shot end.

Then  peer-pressure forced my hand.

Always clumsy, I took the rifle, aiming

to miss and killed with my first shot.

Mocked for the tears I shed on finding

the twitching smear of flesh and feather,

I ran, inconsolable and desolate,

pneumatic smack still echoing

it’s blank indifference in the level

fostered fields and blasted meadow.