A day of mixed blessings

Hunting season opens
its jaws, and nature screams
in anguish.

In the grass a baby plays
with blades of grass, laughter
in tiny scuttling feet.

Heron flies, skimming treetops,
neck bent, hoarse-voiced, loud
as the crack of gunfire.

He’s old, the dog,
says nose hello to baby,
but the shrieks of joy fall on deaf ears.

Cat, dog, baby, lie on sun-dapples
beneath the trees; we listen
to the sounds that should not be.