The Remmington 700

Bolt action fires louder than words.
Embeds deeper than retroactive rational,
he says he doesn’t want to be a gun
but shoots anyway. Trust dead on target.
Forgot the orange vest and disregarded being the safest.
Part of the human condition is getting wrapped up
in patterns of thinking, fixated on whats missing,
trying to fill it, trying not to given in to the thought
that you’re broken, digging in. We can’t stand
seeing our own shadowed reflections in other humans.
The physical kind, the similar eyes matching skin type
God forbid we recognize these connections ground us.
What sets us apart from the bears and deer
are the subconscious feelings that sneak up and redirect our hunt.
The oh. The comforting slow dancing in an airport terminal,
the stomach shot understanding that I too can lose myself to a sensation.
 .
The kicker of the bolt action is the manual requirement of it’s operation.
Not automatic but a chosen pursuit of consequence,
and knowing the blow back will likely bruise your shoulder
if the caliber is high, what you say doesn’t matter.
But when we visit the woods self care is step one,
if someone pops out of a bush down range unexpected
who’s at fault

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