Poetry of K. A. Markee
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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