night owl

Somebody, please. Get up and get the gun. Go shoot the night owl. All his hooting, the carrying on.

I've put some boots next to the radiator to warm them up a bit. The rifle's sight's been righted.

The bastard, cold screaming into the echo of night. Testing out tones, adjusting his bifocals. Oooh, and oooooooooh. Loudly darting to get mice and other little rodents whose bellies almost swing to the ground. Upsetting the tall, uncovered grass and drifts of cancer cell snow.

His face round as a lie. Going ooooooooooh, oh oh, oooooh.

Nature's a blessing first, then a curse. My patience is on fire.

So here—the rifle.

And here's some food for it, a surplus of The Armory: 7.62 x54r. And now something to go over your eyes so you can see greenly and full in this dark.

I want to see a rain of feathers. A ticker tape parade. A sea of red at the bottom of the tree.

I'll sleep easy. Heavy as a monument.

Here. Quick. Take it. Do it. I would, but can't myself.