Saturday, April 19, 2008

Flint Hills Poem by H.C. Palmer

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.