To hear sounds in a thunderstorm

and the pure sweat of rain

in my heart

I must be drunk in the white lightning

of madness: there is wild maize

bending on this old wooden bar, wind mounting

as if there is a bird of lust

that knows,

like the old wild turkey—blood running from its wing

and crouching in this field of autumn brown stubble—

that hunters are usually inaccurate amateurs

and the end is final.