I winged my bird, <br />Though he flew toward the setting sun; <br />But just as the shot rang out, he soared <br />Up and up through the splinters of golden light, <br />Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled, <br />With some of the down of him floating near, <br />And fell like a plummet into the grass. <br />I tramped about, parting the tangles, <br />Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump, <br />And the quail lying close to the rotton roots. <br />I reached my hand, but saw no brier, <br />But something pricked and stung and numbed it. <br />And then, in a second, I spied the rattler-- <br />The shutters wide in his yellow eyes, <br />The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him, <br />A circle of filth, the color of ashes, <br />Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves. <br />I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled <br />And started to crawl beneath the stump, <br />When I fell limp in the grass.<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bert-kessler/
