A shooter aimed at two pigeons launched
From traps before his gun.
Both were stopped in their rapid flight
Shot in the name of fun.
The male bird lay at the field's edge
And just before he died,
He faintly called to his wounded mate
And she dragged herself to his side.
She bent her head and cooed to him
In a way distressed and wild,
Caressing her one and only mate
As a mother would a child.
Then covering him with her shattered wing
And gasping with failing breath,
She laid her head against his breast,
A feeble moan... then death.
This story is true, though crudely told:
I was the man in this case.
I stood in a crowd of other sick souls
And the hot tears burned my face.
I buried the birds in the killing field
Wrapped in my hunting shirt,
And I vowed to repent for my horrible deeds
As I crossed the expanse of dirt.
Hunters will call me a right poor sport
And scoff at the thing I did.
But that day something broke in my heart
And shoot again? God forbid!
Paraphrased from "A Hunters Poem"
(c) D.L. Roth 3/22/99
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