The big owl died because of crows.
They caught him sleeping, chased him away,
that lazy famous afternoon
half a century ago.
A hundred yards into the forest,
twenty yards to ash tree tops,
the young teen boy holds the gun,
right eye tight to the scope.
Did he brace against a tree?
Did he shake? He can't remember.
He did hold cross-hairs to the prize -
One deep breath in, one half out -
and squeeze!
A hundred yards, and one inch lower.
Dead on. One shot. In the throat.
No squirrels that day, but one big smile.
Dead on. Dead Great-Horned Owl.
(2012)
L C Vieira
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/great-horned-owl/
