The last shot

                                     The Last Shot

It was not long before morning light assuaged the murky blackness.  Three lay along a ditch line; small dark shapes scattered front.

Whistling broke the dawn stillness.  The boys readied, squinting to capture sight.  ‘They’ had come back.

With handshakes in a lonely dinner years later, the boys were now two.  The way it had started.  Just a different ‘font.’

Bones creaked and ‘heavier’ toted the gear.  Yet nowhere had they enjoyed more those last special years.

Dinner for four, hearts set in love.  They hugged him a salute and then there was one.

Leaving most decoys to make room for the bourbon, beer and dog, the one set out alone with memories and miles to burn.

The last hand shake with a Canadian grey wisped head, who smiled and pointed, “look yonder over the ridge.”

The points of black shuttled in and then out.  He turned and smiled and walked to the truck.  And the farm path he strode; 870, dog and full heart.


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