They resound through the hills.
Somebody shooting skeet.
I wonder who might be frightened,
thinking danger at hand.
Good ole boys never meaning no harm
until they do.
They sound so different in the city—
thinner somehow, like firecrackers.
Maybe human blood changes the sound
with changed meaning and intention.
Here, the roar comforts, redolent
of cold mornings with fathers, grandfathers, uncles.
Killing here builds community
around a hot meal and home-ways.
But there, of course, community falls to pieces
under the piercing of metal.