Today four men wearing blinding orange
walk from the field back to their pickups,
faithful shotguns by their sides. One tells me
they’re hunting ruffed grouse. Harder
than you’d think,
he says. The birds must be
burrowing under snow or hiding in aspen. Breaded,
pan-fried, you’d never eat chicken again. And
do I know of courtship? Only the ruffed
grouse are nonvocal, drumming like mad
for each other by rapidly beating their wings,
thump-thump-thump, you can hear them
a quarter mile in thick woods. I hike back
to my cabin and reheat soup, rattle silver-
ware looking for the spoon I wish were you.

First published in One, Jacar Press

Forums: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.