18 December 2018

Postcard 151

It is a strange kind of special to be, he tells me, and takes a drink
I don't mind it, and even most the old hands would rather not
These trees here, he gestures before us with the glowing bottle,
I'd take em out. Then we'd see the stars
The trees, unmoving, hold the glow of our woody fire
He had been talking to me about killing cows
I had not said a word and maintained my silence
I wondered about the trees
Every herd needs to get culled, he went on,
cleaned out of the ones got no more use
His eyes were glassy in this outward introspection
I just walk up and do it quick
No feelings about it at all
I'm not pathological. I've thought about it
He, again, brings bottle to his lips
I feel things, but you've got no use, its time to be out of the way
Its a strange special to be, but its got to be done, culling the herd
We sat for a bit in quiet
the fire's crackle
the bottled swish
His eyes were hard and dry, but his mouth flowed wet
filling the dark low places around us
Cull is about the worst thing you can call a man
Make a lot of enemies that way, call a man cull

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