Independence

Unaware of an adult screech,
wild turkey greased veteran lips
laughing with his young gunsmith
who then spied red-coated stalkers
upon crying prey.
 
"Brown Bess . . . ,"
 
one musket was primed
'neath slow caresses.
 
Wind combed a bushfire of hair,
igniting muscle for innate flesh.
 
Thunder divided those lightning wolves.
 
Their ensnared screecher;
secured by the gunsmith
who checked sweet skin for bruises,
tamed trembling heartbeats,
and escorted that soul far;
politely shied away in stuttered awe.
 
Stilled by the innocent's dance home
with the musket as a gift,
one ultimate encounter-
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Written July 19
 
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