yes, we are plunging into the snowy wood
because i come from a long line
of dead indians
outdoorsmen and southern drunks
me
my shotgun
canteen
and trusty steed of a dog
inked pheasant feather in my cap
but we wouldn’t dare shoot a thing
not so much as a skittering squirrel
though dad showed me how to skin ’em
with five slits of a pocket knife
when i was six
i won’t spill blood for the sake
of making noise
and the chance
to lean against a tree
sipping sunday bourbon
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