The Dead Return Every Minnesota Winter
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bird hunting
My father staggers aheadwith a rifle strapped to his shoulder,the first snow still saltedin drifts of his hair.Cov noog tau mus tsev lawm,he says, but we trek furtherto places the wildfires have yet to claim.We passed a nest of robin eggscrushed beneath a giant silver maple,he gathers the speckled shellsinto his palms, fits them into unnamedcountries, then buries them beneaththe scorched earth.He speaks a prayer before moving ondeeper into the songless morning.My hand in his hand
My father staggers aheadwith a rifle strapped to his shoulder,the first snow still saltedin drifts of his hair.Cov noog tau mus tsev lawm,he says, but we trek furtherto places the wildfires have yet to claim.We passed a nest of robin eggscrushed beneath a giant silver maple,he gathers the speckled shellsinto his palms, fits them into unnamedcountries, then buries them beneaththe scorched earth.He speaks a prayer before moving ondeeper into the songless morning.My hand in his hand
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