Monday morning, after a weekend of carnage, the retired men with white vans, too much time on their hands and too little imagination and sensitivity are still blazing away at inoffensive creatures that are infinitely more useful and beautiful than they are.
For the OctPoWriMo prompt.
knots tighten
taut
twanging like bowstring
the report of a gun
not placid
as the eyes embedded in wood
fiercely blind
clench-fisted against the ungraspable.
Knots bind
hands flail
unbound but helpless
in the face of flying bullets
and the brutish blackness
beneath the skull
of the hidden hunter.