I imagine we are there midst

The hunters who gather

And anglers, too, a cast

There to shop our devices--

Fly, lure, arrow, bullet or shot, all

The better to express ourselves.

Some are buyers, some not.

Half are dressed in orange,

Which shouts loud, here I am!

Hear me! I am! Don't shoot me!

These are the extroverts out

There seeking what is out there.

Readers can see them coming

A mile off--the hunting party.

The other half are camo-clad.

These would be the introverts, who

Seek refuge in the blind, their comfort

In subtle subterfuge, unseen by

Prey or companion, quiet in their skill,

Alone and lethal in the kill. It is

A solitary art, this waiting--waiting.

We all inevitably gravitate to

The taxidermy department to peer

Through the window so to admire

Each others' trophies curated

Lifelike with glass eyes and foam,

Fur, feather, hide, and scale. Each

Presses to thank the taxidermist.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.