Down The Barrel

dsc_0042-nefStretching legs over hills, winded breaths plague me but do not influence my movement enough to make a difference. Something in-between me and it has caught me in a rapture. I can barely feel the tight compact grass beneath my feet as I continue, heavy gun slung in hand, jostling forward. Continuing my ragged breathing, depending upon my legs to keep up, I can only stare down that barrel. I know it is there, somewhere in the mist of these southern hills. And maybe it has a boom for me as it did for the rest of my red and white saints. Even, can I take a moment to hope it doesn’t? For the fact could be, I have already seen my boom. No?

I heard once of men walking white valleys, the sun on their faces, laughter on the wind. I had heard once that laughter, haven’t I? One can never be too sure in this heavy mist what carries on the zephyrs barely felt and partially imagined. Still, I shuffle. And I know my breaths carry across to unknown ears attached to unique and unknown motives. At least, I like to think they are questionable. Can I take a moment to hope enough for questionable?