Quarry I would sit inert. The BB gun pumped The imagination, loaded With illusions of the hunt, Stalking barn swallows In the beams they haunt. Spit a BB and swallowed As they flew away with each Miss, until the miss wasn’t A miss. A shock of feathers Lie still there, a spot of blood, A flush of surprise, throat frozen. Crestfallen. Fun was in the pretense Of hunt and hunter, not the shot Or success. I gave it away, the gun, To someone else’s son and took up A simple stick, a spear, and went Afield where the butterflies were.
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently in Ibbetson Street, Sheila-Na-Gig, ONE ART, London Grip, and Ink Sweat & Tears. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.
Amethyst Review 