Of An Unknown Poet

i have lain in blinds and hid from southern invasions; droves of blue bills, teal, wood, dragging winter in their wings. i have lain in blinds, cold mud rain slaughtered fog breaths bursting in caps cloudy Marlboro coughs To not be seen is of value and drives the wheels of surprise and until seen, all optimism clings to the accuracy of a guide. And when I watch from the brush and tangles thinking me safe, so far out of view and longing, I find struggle in shooting the thing I love Though I ought to, at the very least, in order to explain the mud.