P O E T R Y 127
HUNTING J.E. Tankersley
We were two coon hounds sifting through the forest after a scent, like a couple of orange-vested hunters. The waterfall of a bomb ripped through the boughs like the faraway concussion of a rifle shot. A limb splintered from the trunk of a tree— crashed against the roots like the body of a hunter being shot through the chest. And I was left, standing on my head with sycamores growing from the sky, like watching a dear friend fall in a hunting accident.