Out behind the double-wide
dusk coils tight as barbed wire
around the man
watching a late August field
empty itself of farmhands, tractors,
implements.
Under the darkening drip
of cold pistol sweat, he struggles
then disengages the safety
just as nerves rustle
some distant brush, the caw
of a bird:
“Dooo-it…
____ Dooo-it…
_______Dooo-it….”
But he does not for fear
of vultures, the feasting after.
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