The Hunter's Remorse

Snow has fallen; the light has changed.
At work I am silent, my fingers white
and strained. I do not want to be
a creature severed from my nature.

Perhaps we know too much, cannot shake
the wounded games. I too, can hunt
for rabbit, shoot the quail and send
the dog to drag it from its cat-tail grave.

Every night, the quail roasting in the pot
with carrots, mushrooms, onions, boiling,
I remember who I am and miss the speckled birds
whose songs did not survive.

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