wings beat
like a loud roar
and a blur of brown
as the grouse darts in
and out of birch
and spruce.
My gun swings up.
I shoot and
miss.
Air and trunk are all I kill.
Eight shots. No prize
to show. I guess
it will be beans
for chow once more.
(I've been reading Dumas' "Three Musketeers." And in the story, Aramis writes a poem using only one syllable words. I thought it would make for a fun exercise. And this is the result.)
