gunshots ovenbird Rifle blasts rend the morning and I wake with the aural residue of a bullet lodged in my feathered breast. The hunters are out on the river of fog with their scopes trained on anything that flies. It's open season on waterfowl until two days before Christmas. Santa will visit those who survive, tucking snails and slugs into the remains of last year's nest, tasty morsels for a holiday feast. Jesus wasn’t born to save the ones who live between water and sky. So I open my eyes to the gunpowder grey morning and wait for the sun to rise. 251129 what's it to you? who go blather from