First of August. <br />Hot enough to melt tin. <br />Waist deep in a field <br />of rye, I load my shotgun <br />and wait. <br /> <br /> <br />Clouds bury the sun. <br />Noon becomes midnight. <br />Stars sparkle and dance <br />like fireflies full of peyote. <br /> <br /> <br />The clouds darken. <br />The sky shrinks. <br />I raise the shotgun and fire. <br />A star falls. <br /> <br /> <br />I reload, and fire again. <br />And again. Elen times. <br />Twelve dead stars <br />scar the field. <br />I smile. <br /> <br /> <br />The sky blackens and shrivels <br />until only the howling of obsidian remains. <br />The world is ending. <br />The temperature rises.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shooting-stars-8/
