In the Tall Grass of a Landing Zone
The pup scents for the far
drop from the covey rise
so I fetch the last bird
down. Shot at close range
the little hen has come
apart. Her feathers,
wet with her blood,
cling to my fingers.
I probe for the femoral artery
where fragments
of his jungle fatigues
penetrate through the wound.
After it’s over,
and for a long time,
I pick at my fingers---
threads in congealed blood.
On my knees, beside the creek
I wash her feathers away.
