Phil walks ahead, Bootheels deepening the fallowed earth, with a Shotgun slung on his shoulder and a rifle hung In his left hand, pointed away up-field. The field's Far end harbours crows worrying shriveled kerns From split-husk cobs in a missed strip of corn And rooking up awkwardly in tight circles. Phil Stands on a plowcrest half the field away, looks Back and up I come to stand On the close edge of balance, thumbs in pockets. Phil watches me, his blue kin eyes under thickrimmed Glasses that darken in the pale autumn sun, then holds Out the rifle, barrel up, stock first. No one taught me to slow my breath and go quiet, how To hear my heart and make it pause a half beat, But holding the dark wood and blued metal I pull, And shoot a crow out of the air two feet off a furrow. Surprise Darkens crow and cousin, and Phil grins and says Jesus, First shot lucky. Then I know he stopped us far enough For me not to hit anything, nor him either and I feel Sick for killing a living thing, the crow almost brother. But I swallow and work the bolt, keen For the shooting, which makes me as calm as shock, The world gone far and small and sharp. My heart beats Too slow watching the crows circle undeterred, raucous And hungry. They settle down on the corn and Phil pushes His glasses higher on his nose, watches me go stark still. I pull the trigger again and take a crow off a cornstalk. Are you aiming or just shooting? My head is ringing and I Smell guncotton and my shoulder aches and I say Aiming.