Fall 1988 • Vol. X No. 4 Poetry |

Pheasant Season

They are out there to be killed. My blood jumps for the chase. My eyes look wide of the road. They are searching the corn rows, the wind-sheltered draws. My ears, dulled by conversation, the drone of music, listen at the sudden break in the usual. My nose sniffs the wind. There are only a few more weeks left. December is here. The snows will block the roads and the fields will resemble golf courses. There is only a little time left to exercise the animal. I jump at the sound of the door. I wait panting among the hunting boots and heavy coats. I must be taken for a walk. I have heard the owl call at midnight. Last night's moon rose in the corner of my eye. In my sleep the centuries come and go. They are working on Chartres. They are building the bridge across the Verrazano Narrows. They are extending the city into the wilderness. At the borders wolves are seen along the perimeters. I am among them.

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Tía Joanna

By Frank Gaspar

They are out there to be killed. My blood jumps for the chase. My eyes look wide of the road. They are searching the corn rows, the wind-sheltered draws. My […]

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