The Deer Stand
John C. Mannone
Furry platinum clouds
silverstreak the skies
serving up the moon, full
of gold light.
We hunker down
on pineboard planks, wait
for the bloodstaining
twilight when they
come out—jagged-tooth
limbs scratch the roof
in shifting air, their creaking,
a heavy breath
of wind.
Lead-gray rifle barrels jut out
from shadows, aim
at the howling
caw of crows
at the edge
of the woods. No safety
latch, trigger ready,
bullets loaded—
silver ones
for the weredeer
