A first contribution to One Shot Wednesday; a fourth (and final) draft of this poem.



SHOOTING AT A FOX

Up on Bell's Hill, hours
after sundown; watchless
thus timeless; starlight printed
on the earth below:

all the lights of Exeter
in a black bowl.  We breathe
through our mouths.  No wind
in the hillside beeches

or the hawthorn hedge
we crouch behind.  Bob looms
at my side, log-still,
indistinct, yet electric

with attention, his cradled shotgun
staring at the ground,
round-eyed.  An owl quavers
in the ice-heart of the wood.

Movement at the field's edge:
shadow on shadow; an elision of shape
and formlessness.  The fox slides
along a dark rail, single

purposed, the fanatic's way –
pace over pace through
the long grass and
at the field's edge.

Bob's gun coughs twice,
dry-voiced.  Night cracks
like slate; splinters fly
and the world tips up.

We stare, bloodshot, jangling,
into the bright darkness.
Shadows realign at the field's edge.
Night self-heals, like water.

pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/permuted/469090124/