Over my head, I see the moths fly,
Asleep on the rotten trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in swamp shadow.
Down the stream behind the churchyard,
The gunshots follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two hives,
The remains of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden groves.
I rise up, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A dead hunter floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.