The gun’s stock, lifted, too long,
Putting the cold trigger beyond;
Still, he adjusted, feet, hands, gait;
Finding the gun’s balanced weight.
Targets – a propped-tile in white,
Two tossed bottles, and a down pipe;
Easily in range, he shot, low-missed;
Long-sight dropped by trigger-pull twist.
February’s dull flatness, a planing-wind,
Lifted my past, and Dad, again;
Reluctant to share lone-hunt-time away,
With a cold-chattered boy, as I did today.
I lifted Dad’s shotgun, with safety flicked,
To my shoulder’s larger, better fit:
Over-under, aimed at the silent-drey;
I, too, missed my target that day.