Anne M. Carson
The Rain of Bodies
Pods of gangangs hurl sleek grey bodies
into a receptive sky. They surf, rising and dipping,
catching air-current waves in sets from ridge
to ridge. Red-capped males lead. Querulous calls
resound across the valley. The empty space above
fills, opens out – a book I’ve always wanted to read.
Down the road, duck hunters in camouflage gear
camp by the jetty, waiting for the season to open.
I dread dawn’s mayhem, broken plumage.
Early morning, the pop pop of distant guns interrupts
sleep, innocent as a child’s replica, doing its deal
of damage. No peaceful transition from sleep, no
dream tatters curled about the mind to mull over while
the billy boils, to wonder at over breakfast. All I think
of is the rain of bodies, the thud as they hit earth.