Summer Dusk

JOANNE PREISER

I can still see you, small and slim
as the gun you held barrel down,
casting a straight shadow in Bishop’s field.

After an early supper, the neighborhood kids
rushed to the back of the woodshed to watch you
shoot the yellow bird dog who, that morning,
stood at the milk room door, yolk
dripping from his lips, feathers
stuck to his ears.

Your copper skin turned sallow
as you lifted the smooth stock to your cheek.
Our father stood at your side, waiting
until he knew you would not shoot.

That silent moment broke
when a flock of geese flew 
overhead. Heredity stretched that bird dog straight
across your sight as father hissed, “Shoot
now.” The air cracked in two.

We kids ran to inspect the dead dog.
With a finger-sized hole over his right eye, 
he looked asleep on the green field.
When father turned him over, I saw
there was nothing left.

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