I go for a run with the

black dog, and a bird

flies overhead, across

the sidewalk one tree to

another. A block farther

on, another bird. Later, a 

third flies across the street

to a small crowd of

trees by the power

station. But always one

bird. When I was a kid, 

the sparrows flocked

so thick on the

farm that they’d 

darken the sun for

a blink of an eye.

My brother & I had

the green light to 

thin them out, in hopes 

of preventing them passing

disease to the herd.

We protected our cows 

with bb & pellet guns. 

I’d cock a copper

ball into the gun,

aim, and pull the trigger.

My older brother would

pump ten times to fill

an air bladder to 

bursting, the pressure

rocketing a cylindrical

pellet through the

soft breast of

the bird, its wing

knocked cockeyed.

I don’t think I ever 

killed one, but not out

of honor—my Red Ryder

too weak to do more

than lob a bb ultimately

into the cow shit.

I wanted to help the

cows, to kill the 

diseases. We thought

we were noble. We

thought we were helping. 

We were bearing witness 

to metal flying through

unknown, complexity. 

A barn cat rending 

the bird apart as it 

licks blood & milk.

            At least we

            were here.

            At least we

            saw it while it

            was here.