Frozen Ground 
Andrew F. Popper

Is this our field?
With whipping brown grasses
Prickly bushes 
And mounds firmed by cold.
 Idle lumps 
That send you flying  
Chilled still-life
Below our feet
Counterfeit dying.

The gray-brown all
Is pierced by punk
Stalks with seeds
Thorns and hulls.
Trees on the hedgerow
Hide walls of stone
And just ahead
One carcass lying
Two rows
All ribs
White bone.

She stops and points
Spent shotgun-shell 
Half ice-covered
It still speaks.  

She stops our walk
With anger whispers;
This, she says,
This is not our field. 
She calls it blood thrill 
Sought by cowards        
City hunters 
Poised for a kill.

They left the head
And most of the body
First-rate dining
For vulture and crow
She hates this field. 
It’s full of dying
And right on cue
A blast of snow.