I take these hands of mine,

a personality of their own,
and grasp cold steel.
I take these hands of mine,

a memory of their own,
and play a forgotten sonnet.
In the autumn,

these hands pull triggers,
feel remorse, understanding, satisfaction
at watching pheasants fall in golden fields
the sound of death ricochets off fallen, rotting trees.
It is not for sport, not for manly pride,
it is my reconciliation.
(Should not have said it's the truth; it sparks wonderful passion.)
I take these hands of mine,

hands of my ancestors,
clutch my result – its warm, limp and slim neck,

as so many of my ancestors had before me.
Now I wonder,

as the silence swallows me,
inside as well as out –

did I need to?
But don't we all­ need to?
Need to understand, need to grasp
with our bare hands

the neck of our next meal.
Never once have these hands

pulled cold steel triggers, remembering how to aim and follow through,
without wondering ­– did I need to?
And never once,

have these hands of mine
been casual about taking pheasants from the air.
Ending colorful flapping of wings,

graceful shallow soaring.
But these hands of mine,

hands of my ancestors,
brutal, gentle hands
help me understand.