You crest the hill, chin down, rifle cradled
across your chest. Your palm lies flat

against the stock, shielding it with the same reverence
as you held your son. Last night,

you tucked him cheek to breast, cupped his head
in the hearthlight. His soft whorls of hair

blurred to suggestion & you swayed in front of the logs,
as if praying his sleep might cure in the heat.

Since his mama’s been gone, you return
with your game bag empty, every trip a meditation

that one loss cannot erase another. Your son
burbles in my arms & I watch you from the window,

hunching—a man hauling the horizon on his back.
Sunset stuccos the sky with the embers of last night’s fire.

Light glares along the barrel, less like a breath,
& more like a gasp—sharp enough to shatter bone.