Poetry

The Game Warden

Staring out the clean wide window
hoping not to see what I seek.

The feeling of dread hangs heavy in the air
everyone turns to me.

Then I hear it, a distant roar
My blood turns to ice, I know that sound well.

I've heard that sound often, more times than I care -
mixed with the sound of men dying.

I grab my rifle, heading for the source of
that dreadfull sound, probably heading for death.

If only they'd listened, I'd warned them before
but they ignored all my pleas.

So now I head out, my gun feeling heavy
for today I will die.

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