Dead Thing

My gaze leaves the dark blue October sky
Settling on the newly bared branches of trees
Patiently setting buds for the coming winter.

It rests, temporarily, on the quiet empty distance
That I check for witnesses.

The dead thing at my feet no longer breathing
It’s heart no longer beating.

The pistol in my hand, warm,
The echoes of gunfire, silent.

I turn and walk back to the road,
Dry leaves crunching underneath my boots.

The only other sound a distant crow,
Or, perhaps, a raven.

My breath is slowing in the cool autumn air
After an elimination of another negative.

I have little time for recreation,
But I do have time for a nightcap, a celebration of a job well done.

When I reach the road I look back;
The blackbirds have already discovered the dead thing.

Born and raised in Chicago, John Patrick Redell worked as a construction engineer/surveyor for 30-some years before retiring to live most of the time in Door County. The quietness of a less hectic lifestyle is more conducive to the hobby of writing than the more hectic madness of the big city life.