Fair Game

As if he’d hit

a wall in air,

or slipped on ice,

or simply tripped mid-

flight,

a pheasant stumbles —

then we hear the shot.

All this beside

that stretch of land

in which a farmhand’s

fencing.

We see before we hear

the thud.

He’s straining wire

as if he’s tuning strings

of a long guitar.

And then we come

across the body — a fluster

in the mud,

a final flare

before the fire falters.