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
RF Image