Blue

I stand there under the high limbs of locust watching my father point a black gun into the air his arms steepled for the stillness required to split the proverbial hair with a BB. I would like to throw a red hat to catch what will smack from the barrel but instead the songbird drops fast—a warm stone through liquid swimming between us. The stink of yellow sulfur thick. And the twist of his mouth, like tangled purple boughs or crossed legs of what he never dreamed he'd hit. Years after, I will admit only to so much. Blue moon tomorrow. Do we ever get a second chance? It's what I don't say that speaks loudest.