On weathered posts of split-rail fence
I'd hammered signs: "No Hunting Here!"
But they're ignored by men who won't
request permission, just appear.

Their bright red caps and orange vests
are vaguely visible as they
stomp through the rows and trample stalks
in search of injured or new prey.

I shout and whistle, wave my arms,
but I'm ignored; they're too intent
on finding ringnecks--roosters, hens.
They'll shoot on sight if dogs get scent.

Four pheasants flushed and guns explode.
I watch one twist with shattered wing
and plunge into the stalks of corn
where yowling dogs pursue poor thing.

These, thy creatures, chose to make
my farm their home, don't ask me why.
Forgive me, Lord, for having failed
to keep them safe. I've let them die.