Shawn Huelle

think fireworks

The wind changed, and suddenly, birds were being struck from the sky by fist-sized stones of hail. I watched as several attempted to fly through the deluge. Who is in charge of removing the carcasses of dead animals? What happens to those carcasses? Are they put on the compost to be eaten by worms? Are they incinerated? Otherwise annihilated?

Fist-sized, but maybe also the size of a dove's egg. Pigeons are a type of dove. Would the pigeon understand being shot down by something it might have laid? Did the anti-choice activists who put little rubber fetuses into bags of candy at the North Dakota State Fair this last weekend ever think that they were then equating the beginnings of human life with something sweet to nibble on?

I don't want to shoot you with a bullet with your name on it, but I do want to name all of my bullets.

Is there a way to load a shotgun shell so that discharging the weapon at relatively close-range onto a blank space would create recognizable patterns such as words. Could one pack a shell with a name?

The storm came from the west. There is an east-facing window in my bathroom. I was able to watch the storm as it pummeled the west side of the building facing mine. I have seen hail before, but never in quite such an urban setting. If you can call this setting urban. Multiple-story buildings packed tightly together. Terra cotta roof tiles and lots of windows. The repeated smack of ice against stucco and paving stone.

The sky as shotgun.

The word blunderbuss should mean clumsy kiss.

A pistol kisses. A rifle fucks. A blunderbuss punches. A shotgun . . . caresses?

Caressed by the sky? Punched with clumsy kisses? Punches that say I love you. I love you again and again.