First of August.
Hot enough to melt tin.
Waist deep in a field
of rye, I load my shotgun
and wait.


Clouds bury the sun.
Noon becomes midnight.
Stars sparkle and dance
like fireflies full of peyote.


The clouds darken.
The sky shrinks.
I raise the shotgun and fire.
A star falls.


I reload, and fire again.
And again. Elen times.
Twelve dead stars
scar the field.
I smile.


The sky blackens and shrivels
until only the howling of obsidian remains.
The world is ending.
The temperature rises.

David Kowalczyk

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shooting-stars-8/