There has been no word about Pattress,
no words from Mr. Dell,
though I’ve been hoping for some
news—
words like
The vet said she’ll be okay,
or
She’s injured for life,
or
Thank you for finding her,
or even
It’s all your fault for having those turkeys.
But Mama and I heard none of them
while we searched for Rufus
and picked up what was left of him—
more feathers, a foot,
and part of his beak—
and buried him under a maple tree in the backyard.
We’ve heard nothing tonight
after dinner
and dishes
and homework at the kitchen table,
until
Gunshot—
the exclamation point
of a sentence with no words.
It shakes the glasses in the drainer
and rattles my chest.
Papa swings open the back door
and looks outside.
That’s when we hear the words
Mr. Dell shouts from the fence.
“You won’t have to worry about that coyote
getting any more of your turkeys.”
Thanks to Mr. Dell, the turkeys will be safe.
But I’m still worried about Pattress,
and slip under Papa’s arm.
“Is Pattress okay?” I call.
Mr. Dell shoulders his rifle.
“She’ll be fine,” he says,
and nods
so deeply that it could be a bow.