In the road with last night’s
road-kill raccoon, he videos
an eagle light from pole
to fence post, the coyote
hesitate in the pasture
before ambling off
and he asks who would win
if he wasn’t parked
with his parents watching.
When do we lose our eye,
not recognize the shy retreat
from our presence, our history?
Two thousand moons ago
the natives left
rabbits upon our doorstep
to keep us and our guns
inside. What gods
would blind us so?
drycrikjournal 
An excellent question . . . An excellent poem!
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I wonder if you realize just how much you help lift the blinders.
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I believe you are a crack shot with a camera – better than with a rifle. Maybe you choose your targets with greater care.
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