Aiming his Remington .22, in the distant past At the two birds swimming side by side So he could hit both with one bead: Dua papa, maysa bala… My father knew the trick is not to fire in haste So much as shoot straight And see the beautiful stroke Across the water’s face, sending the rest to flight-- My father, the marksman, once told me his aim Was true, he could still see the birds half-hidden Upstream, in a secret bend of the river In his mind, could still feel the touch Of water on his skin, his river song… My father had that: the one sweet kiss on smooth dark wood In a friendly game of pool or table tennis--the backhand shot Just right. So it was with his world outside, in Surong. If it was wings, it was the skein flying above him. If it was green, it was the hills and fields around him. In Pallas, in Parparoroc, it was all the same: It was all that and the river’s ancient song. By the water’s edge, he gazed down the river He had hunted so many times before. Beyond Bucana, all the way to Tamdagan and Dipilat Beyond mountains shrouded in mist and myth The river in his blood carried him aloft. Nothing else but the ritual that saw him there Nothing but the wind and water dancing around him Or the bird that suddenly woke him in the marshes Wings turning into mere specks in the blink of an eye But no matter. Across the broad sweep of sky He fired, anyway And to his astonishment The bird fell back down to earth! I can still see him now, standing alone, on the river Rifle in hand, Stunned by the accomplishment, An improbable feat, a lucky shot at best— Such magisterial good luck Perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime trick And no one around to witness it-- No one to hear Or back his word, except the river gods that smiled And willed the shot! Copyright © 2005 Vintar.Com