The Responsibilities of Godhood

A shotgun barrel poked outward
from the brush.

How smooth an arc the hunter traced,
his bead drawn dead center
on a flock of yellow birds
scared up from a sycamore.

Each lemon-bright finch was a morsel
too scant for a child,
but still he fired.

Feathers exploded, blew outward
in such dazzling confetti
that blood, flesh, bone
vanished in the glow.

Then the survivors circled back
toward the carnage,
drawn in strange euphoria
to flit among feathers of their fallen dead...

Again the barrel rose, swung, jerked,
and another twenty exploded
into silence.

One must marvel at the innocence of birds
who know only bugs, berries, seeds,
who, having set a course from danger,
spiral joyously toward death.

Tiny beaks opened, closed 
in tweets so shrill and sweet
they seemed like a congregation
rejoicing at the Rapture...
They swerved, tumbled, darted, 
all five hundred stubby wings frantic
for the hunter's aim.

At last he himself arose,
filled with the arrogance
of certainty.

Each shot convinced him
of his power over life,
his ease in meting out death
upon these lithe, aerobatic
children of the sky.

Until one shower of down-soft feathers
settled to his shoulders,
alighted on his hair,
slid down the trough
between twin barrels...

He paused, lowered his gun,
while one remaining handful
found a salvation
they could never comprehend.

The hunter stood his ground,
solid as a statue,
like a god suddenly disarmed
by his own terrible
power.

Scott Speck
02/01/2004