For Phoebe Palmer
Little brother, would I could
Make it so far, the whole globe
Curling to the quick of your wing.
You leave our minds lagging
With no word for this gallant
Fly-by-night, blind flight.
But ah, the shot: you clot
In a cloud of feathers, drop
Dead in a nest of text-books.
Now seasons migration without you
Flying south. At the gunman’s door
The sea-grapes plump and darken.
Hunting sounds a lot more like cops killing an unarmed black kid when the narrator is a family member in the flock. That is what happens to us too, seasons and life go on. The perspective is not really sad, but matter of fact about it. It speaks to me better that way. The tragic death as pain and misery is pretty cliche anyway. This is more honest: we are a bit lost, we'll miss you, but life goes on.
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