Poetry of K. A. Markee

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On Sundays too he would rise before dawn

and brew a pot of coffee over the fire,

then call the dogs with a backwards yawn

before packing up decoys, weights and wire

in a wicker backpack and two homemade hods.

I’d wait until I could not see my breath–

The sunrise over the lake he said was God’s

own reassurance in divine faith.

So he and I would watch it dissipate,

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