A persona poem

Too young to have the words

within myself

much less to confess them

to you

I tread these hills slipping

lightly in your wake barely

breathing so I don’t

flush the quail too soon skittish

as a yearling colt

at your gun blast feeling

smoke on feathers seeing

death as an echo tasting

love like a bird-dog’s sweat thinking

yes, yes

when he drops his prize

blood and bone

at your boots