SATURDAY RAT SHOOT AND RIVER WALK
My paper route ended near the dump,
next to the river.
On Saturdays I took my Red Ryder
thousand shot Daisy
lever action carbine
with leather thong
and saddle ring.
There were rats
to be shot
at the dump.
The rats were tough.
But it's not true
that they charge
when they're wounded.
In the spring,
river paths,
like sunken graves,
have to be reclaimed
from the musty pack
of dead,
winter-pressed leaves.
A wild, brown river duck
waddles and flaps with a sudden,
great racket in the lapping shallows
near the river bank,
shamming a bad wing.
Her brash, splashing show
draws my attention away
from a hidden nest
I've accidentally threatened.
She slowly quiets as I pass on.
Ahead
red and blue and black and white
birds appear and
disappear and
reappear like iridescent popping corn
among the black tree trunks
and heavy, wet, green leaves.
They dip and weave,
chattering and bitching
at my intrusion.
Beside the path a sparrow,
fresh-dead and limp, hangs,
impaled on a rusty length
of forgotten, twisted
barbed wire.
Somewhere near, I sense,
a butcherbird watches and waits.
The world is full of sparrows.
Beyond the noisy green,
the musky stench
of river mud
and dead carp, with
bloated white bellies
at attention,
marooned,
in stagnant spring
pool remnants,
remnants shrinking,
taking life,
returning a grave.
Blue bottle flies
gather on their chests like medals
to honor the bodies of the dead.
Across the dome of the river
stand the estates of the rich.
Long green lawns stretch
from white-walled mansions
and drop quietly,
extravagantly,
to the river edge.
Well-kept sheds
straddle dock ends
and shelter expensive,
Chris-Craft speed boats.
Climbing back to the dump
a suitable can is selected
and kicked all the way home.
--Ronald Manning
Author: Carol Beck. Comments to author: cbeck@lattucadesigns.com
All contents copyright (C) 1997-2002 Carol Beck. All rights reserved.