Small Game

In borrowed boots which don't fit and an old olive greatcoat, I hunt the corn-fed rabbit, game fowl, squirrel, starved bobcat, anything small. I bring down young deer wandered from the doe's gaze, and reload, and move on leaving flesh to inform crows. At dusk they seem to suspect me, burrowed in a corn field verging their stream. The unpecked stalks call them. Nervous, they yield to what they must: hunger, thirst, habit. Closer and closer comes the scratching which at first sounds like sheaves clicked together. I know them better than they themselves, so I win. At night the darkness is against me. I can't see enough to sight my weapon, which becomes freight to be endured or at best a crutch to ease swollen feet that demand but don't get rest unless I invade your barn, which I do. Under my dark coat, monstrous and vague, I turn down your lane, float through the yard, and roost. Or so I appear to you who call me spirit or devil, though I'm neither. What's more, under all, I'm white and soft, more like yourself than you ever would have guessed before you claimed your barn with shot gun, torch, and hounds. Why am I here? What do I want? Who am I? You demand from the blank mask which amuses the dogs. Leave me! I do your work so why ask?