Neighbors, Throwing Knives

In the woods at the corner of our yards we hang the plywood squares, the Magic Marker images of pronghorn, panther, grizzly, whitetail, and step off the paces we use to measure our skill. Here in the soft light filtering through needles and cones, green shifting membrane of poplar, hickory, live oak, white skin of dogwood beginning to flower, we heft the blades, grind points on stone, gauge the fine balance between what is real and what is imagined, the knives bringing all the animals to life and killing them again as our throws bury steel deep in the heart of the quivering wood and the blades tremble back through their bones. In our own hearts we love what they might be, their shapes frozen in brush as though, suddenly, they had turned from wood and caught our scent drifting in a wind-shift. So we hunt this suburb, whet our aim to move among them in the little wilderness beyond the bricked-in beds of azaleas, sunflowers tied against tall sticks, the half-acres of razored grass, trellised vines, boxwoods manicured by wives.