by Charles Ghigna
His hand in hold so trigger tight even
its blood believes in ghosts. It clings with set
finger on steel and waits inside a dream
of ducks. The twilight gives into a rise
of eastern sky as sun reveals herself
too proud and instantly receives full face
a splash of mallard flock. A shotgun blasts
the yellow into streaming pinks and gives
the creek its new day taste of echoed blood.
Two green head ghosts fly through the pulse of dawn
upon a trigger’s touch. The creek empties
of sound. In silence human fingers find
wet feet of web and carry in each hand
a bird whose only cry comes in color.