Night Hunting

Because we wanted thing the way they were
In our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
Raising ripples in a vee behind in his head
The thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
Where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
Or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
To find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
To change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
To see the signs of motion, to make an end
To Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
And then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
That when he shines the light the thing will show
Along the other shore. What next? Well,
You’ve killed animals before. Invited here
For company in the cold night, and because
Ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
And see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
Widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
Like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
A pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
Shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
Or may: God of varmints. God of will, forgive us
Our trespasses. We want precisely what we do.

John Casteen