Shooting Poem by Brian Joseph Dickenson

The air is crisp. The sky is clear.
The frost it bites and stings the ear.
I walk with gun, and dog at heel.
Life is good; or so I feel.

The cattle low and breathe out steam.
Lace-like ice embroiders stream.
A crow drifts by; it tries its voice.
It lives or dies; I have the choice.

It will never know how close it came
To being a dead pawn in my game.
But on this day I bear no ill
For crow or fox upon the hill.

Enough to walk and feel alive.