A hunter shot a flock of geese that flew within his reach.
Two were stopped
in their rapid flight and fell on the sandy beach.
The male bird lay at the water's
edge and just before he died,
He faintly called to his wounded mate and she dragged
herself to his side.
She bent her head and crooned to him in a way distressed
and wild,
Caressing her one and only mate as a mother would a child.
Then covering
him with her broken wing and gasping with failing breath,
She laid her head against
his breast, a feeble honk...then death.
This story is true, though crudely
told. I was the man in this case.
I stood knee-deep in snow and cold, and the
hot tears burned my face.
I buried the birds in the sand where they lay, wrapped
in my hunting coat.
And I threw my gun and belt in the bay, when I crossed in
the open boat.
Hunters will call me a right poor sport and scoff at the thing
I did,
But that day something broke in my heart, and shoot again?
God forbid.