Submitted by Poetry Science
The American woke
His fire crackling in the cold air
A figure, pottering about in the fog.
And then a musket coughed
Flame and led through the night
And the figure slopped into the mud.
Somewhere in the mountains
A hunter yipped, his barrel smoking.
He’d shot a native who brought only gifts.
And a million more would follow.
Painting: The Avenue in the Rain – Childe Hassam