Killing Bluebirds

When I was just a ten-year-old boy,
my BB gun was my favorite toy.
I would shoot and shoot all day,
until I could not miss, no way.

I shot tin cans; I shot matchsticks.
Soon inanimate objects gave no kicks.
Then we visited my grandparents’ farm.
I brought my BB gun; Dad saw no harm.

Two bluebirds had a nest in a fence post.
I had the chance to do what I wanted most.
I took aim as they sat above on a power line.
Killed one. Killed the other. It thrilled me fine.

My grandmother came on the porch. She yelled
not to kill her bluebirds. Still my pride swelled,
although I realized to fake regret I should try.
I wondered why dead bluebirds made her cry.

Fifty years later I fully comprehend her tears.
Now I wonder what deep, primordial fears
are assuaged by the successful kill. Once life
depended upon use of spear, arrow, and knife.

Now Man kills to mount heads on the den wall.
Will Man ever not have the desire to kill at all?
Mankind has to evolve how much further still
before killing some creature provides no thrill?


Please check out my ten books:
http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0