late October frost melted before noon.
the sky, Canada geese were flying south
the Minnesota River Valley.
armed with my plastic shotgun in the crook
my elbow, loaded my orange pop-gun bullets,
to lose them in the cornfield forever.
hunters – my parents, farm neighbors,
banker from town who always let my parents
checks on future bushels, a preacher
father liked to unleash his minister-
jokes on – swept our cornfields,
to scare up pheasants. That day, the sky
sprayed with birdshot. Later, sandwiches
hot chocolate, everyone smelling of gunpowder
feathers instead of cows, money, or a Brylcreemed
of god. Now, everyone else in the hunting
is long gone, faded into the dry rattle
cornstalks. Some things lost in the field
I walk quietly down my row of time, listen
the tinny cry of alarmed roosters, wings flapping
frosty air. Soon, they will not hear me coming.