Jimmy takes his gun into the woods. Jimmy has done this
before, and never will again.
The light is yellow. The trees are tall. Birch bark
pulls like ribbons from a pole.
I like to imagine crickets chirring. I like to imagine he
to pick a flower, stroke a petal.
But these things are hard to find on cold November
mornings, and this morning is cold.
Jimmy takes his gun into the woods. No one is around to
hear it, and so no one knows. I will not imagine this.
My dearest wish: he smells no smoke, tastes only honey.
Leaves fall, one and two, to touch his brow.
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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