a writer of sorts
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.