Laban Carrick Hill

DUCK BLIND

The mallards migrate south with Fall’s fury.
They honk as if bad traffic lay ahead.
Their flight a V, that kind of wedge
That carves the cloudless air invisibly,
While hunters hunker down among the reeds
And blow their calls like horns to celebrate
Their tractors’ final lap to cultivate
The fruit of summer heat’s discharge of seeds.

The paranoid fly on, regrouping ranks,
As others, just as dumb, drop down their tails,
An act of trust, even submission, frail-
ty so basic to landing on the banks.
The camouflaged men pump their guns with cracks.
The flat-billed heads explode off banded necks.