The Duck Blind
Every autumn in the Chaos Mountains
the wind blows through the tall grass
& the rain stalls, fitful in its sublimity.
It is not a season for speaking. Only for listening.
Out there, somewhere beyond the horizon
a silence that is not silence, calls,
& men enter the duck blind, and wait,
huddled with their cartridges & ambiguities,
disguised to themselves as hunters,
re-inventing themselves with rifle eyes
fixed on some vanishing point beyond the language
of rivers & trees, turned away from
the here & now - a tempting non-existence
accompanied by hope, which may be nothing more
than the promise of a big dinner with
lots of stuffing and gravy and no questions.
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