Saturday, August 3, 2019

Rifle Poem :: Poetry Poems

Rifle There's a crack in the air, and I'm split by the sound the moment deadly still until it's broken by another crack. A long sinuous echo hangs in the air, so physical I might try to wave it away like smoke. Then a third and fourth crack, and I'm on my feet, even though shots aren't unheard of in hunting season, these rural woods overfull with deer. But instead of this, I think of the uneven unpolished grain in the stock of my first rifle, the weight of it on the shoulder, the trigger worn dull with use. That first sighting with the left eye looking out. wandering through the sights; the feel of the bolt in the hand as it snapped back, slid forward in its path and locked, readying the cartridge as it lifts into the chamber, secured, prepared. A second snap and it's released, out into the world where only a second before there was nothing, not even stillness. And then the flood of world returns.

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