Sittin on the doorstep
Pullin on me boots
I can’t wait
White dog
Ruby wants to hunt
Lickin my chin
She can’t wait
Paws blasted by gravel
Tail waggin
Eyes on me
Tracking gear on
Rifle at half cock
We crawl under the fence
Mud
Mud
Mud
It’s 6 a.m. darktime
The grass is crunchy
We run
The pig won’t wait
Ruby goes hard down the game trail
I hear from the ridge
Bark
Bark-bark
Bark
V8 grunts
She’s got em
A hundred metre find
Run through the supplejack
Cut up the bank
Good marks in the mud
Splash through the creek
They’re mixing it
Grab the hocks
Lay on it
Flood me jacket
Out with the knife
In with the knife
Hit the heart
Ruby pulls it downstream
Blood up me elbow
Look at the hooks
Wow
We’re soaked
It’s the 8 o’clock pig
The 8 O’Clock Pig by Heather Taylor
Filed under Heather Taylor
Great rhythm though my sympathies lie with the pig. Very visual and visceral word choices. Nicely done.
Words from my childhood. Granddad talking about his morning hunt. I remember that smell of blood and the exuberance of the hunters, but the pig hung upside down in the old oak tree.
Thank you for the memories.
I like the rhythm, too – it’s like the thinking that goes with the doing.
Great meter that goes with the movements in the poem. Peace…
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