Every fall hunters come to shoot ducks
Set up little houses on the lake
Supposed to look like flotsam
Random confluences of twigs and brambles through which
They stick the ends of their rifles.
The ducks ignore these huts
Flock and frolic among the floating decoys
Dipping their heads underwater
From time to time
Until there is a bang
Traveling across the water
And the survivors fly away in a noisy beat of wings.
I look at the carnage through binoculars
See the hunters leave their hidey-holes
Row around picking up dead ducks
And wooden facsimiles.