by underswansea


I jumped the fences put up by the environmentalists. Caught the last of the light hitting the islands past Wilmer. The birds are hard at it. Not just in the sloughs, but on the benches. Swifts jumping up. I used to ride the backroads with younger dogs and cold beers. When we got out to walk the dark, the swifts sounded like bullets rushing overhead. The hounds would duck from an enemy unfamiliar to their thousand year old instincts. I came across a stump with a smashed tv, stereo system and speakers. Twelve feet away an empty box and twelve discharged shotgun cartridges. I don’t understand either: the self-proclaimed environmentalist building a big house on the edge of the wetlands and using his political influence to extend his back yard and fencing off public land; or the shotgun wheeling numbskull blasting away at his entertainment system. To me they are the same.