Guns were our outreach-sensors
like our arms and fingers.
Go where you can shoot without looking.
Mule deer in the scrub forest, north of Corona.
Camouflaged sage green hills with dark green junipers—
Cheatgrass smell and tics everywhere.
Most of the year is peaceful.
the panic comes and they hide.
Hours of walking but no deer seen.
Only tracks and poop—they are running from us.
We had a thirty-ot-six and shot cans and every stop sign around.
Ready for action but no targets: american dream life.
Get away from urban life and shoot/kill.
It would be fun if they didn’t get hurt and die.
