3997. JAGGERMAIN

JAGGERMAIN

Let us leave it be. The soil and the sky,

those hills beyond, and that old and tortured

barn. It twists its tired wood; dried and

dead and peeling. No more the bright-red

color of a newly lit barn.' Old Ironsides' the

tobacco ad on the broad side once said -

not that glimmered paint is old and ghostly,

yet I still can make it out. But (then again)

I am parched for things, so much that even

this will do. I am looking for birds in the

morning light. It is late November, and in

spite of all this goodness, hunters abound.

By now Bow Season spritters their reason :

I swear they will take aim to shoot

at anything that moves.