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The Decoy

My hunter friend, the one I haven’t converted to my “animals-have-feelings-too” frame of mind, uses

a wooden decoy in an attempt

to lure some ducks, the painted, smiling duplicate successful

in its duty: three already shot today, bagged and ready to carve. If objects had living souls, I wonder how it would feel: a traitor,

causing the death of what it mimics, floating on water like a wannabe bird, even feign it could fly if it wanted to,

have its pick of choicest mates; like Pinocchio, eager to be turned

into the real thing, hoping its rifle-bearing

Gepetto will make it

flesh and bone, allow

a brook of blood to pump throughout

its winding veins, pray it might even

bring salvation to this hunter’s

calloused heart, spot a chance at its own redemption, have its maker see its feathered shape as something more than food.





Andreas Gripp



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