Truman P. Reilmeyer
Remorse
A hunter shot a flock of geese
That flew within his reach;
Two were stopped in their rapid flight
And fell on the sandy beach.
The male bird lay at the waters edge,
And just before he died,
He faintly called to his wounded mate,
And she dragged herself to his side.
She bent her head and crooned to him,
In a way distressed and wild,
Caressing her one and only mate,
As a mother would a child.
Then covering him with her broken wing,
And gasping with failing breath,
She lay her head against his breast,
A feeble honk-then death.
This story is true, tho crudely told,
I was the man in the case.
I stood ashamed in the drizzle and cold,
And the hot tears burned my face.
I buried the birds in the sand where they lay,
Wrapped in my hunting coat,
And I threw my gun and belt in the bay
When I crossed in the open boat.
Hunters will call me a damn poor sport,
And scoff at the things I did;
But that day something broke in my heart,
And-shoot again? God forbid!