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.