Recoil

The bedroom window on the second
floor is open. I prop my elbows
on the wooden sill, and wait.

Outside, the apple blossoms tremble.

I find the Robin’s eye—the black bead
in a snow white rim, the still point
in a kaleidoscope of color.

Outside, the apple blossoms tremble.

BBs rattle softly in the magazine.
The evening sunlight streaks
the gun barrel gold.

Outside, the apple blossoms tremble.

One long slow breath: my shoulders
and my forearms buck, then shake.

Outside, the apple blossoms tremble,
and daylight collapses with a thud.

Bob Meszaros