On ginger streamed autumn afternoons,
my brother would go to the woods
to practice shooting clay pigeons.
Each was granted a brief gift of flight before
under a sheet of pellets. Beneath his jovial
shouts – the echoing remnants of monotony
rang alongside the discharged shells falling
elegantly to the ground, resting amongst the leaves.
“There goes Ashley!” he’d scream, as the miniature
corpses of fragmented clay scattered across the
gilded sky – a dark, hardened
blood spatter – smearing the autumn sunlight.
Perhaps he got too good at it.