Swerving

Even though I'm vegetarian, I went hunting once in my life. I was 14
when a friend loaned me a 20-gauge shotgun and we went off into the woods rabbit hunting. I didn't even shoot the gun and I was even caught by a game warden for hunting without a license.

* * *

I remember being about 12 and spending the night at my grandmother's house (at 204 South Marietta St.) when two college-aged women knocked at her door. They had hit a rabbit and wondered if we could help. The rabbit's back was completely skinned - exposing all of its muscle tissue. The two wondered if we had an axe or something else to end its life. I went to the basement and found a hatchet. Out by the sidewalk, i half-heartedly struck the rabbit. It made a horribly loud screaming noise and I just couldn't do any more. I went in the house feeling sick and I don't even remember if the two women were able to end its suffering. It's been so long, but it has always been an ongoing dilemma for me. In some ways I felt weak/cowardly for not being able to put that rabbit out of its misery (as it is termed) but I also wonder if it was even my place to do such a thing.

* * *


Traveling through the dark

< small>Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

~William Stafford

The Burial of the Stars

The ugliest houses may hold the most beautiful spirits
when it seems the loneliest times aren't always spent alone
and the most alone one can imagine, often isn't at all lonely.
Here then, the earth sits upside-down in a ramshackle way
and in the choices we make, she imparts her resolution, as
among dreadful weeds, the loveliest daisies may yet grow
(fragile, tender, bright)


* * *

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous
Jupiter,
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
From: On the Beach at Night, Walt Whitman