the turning point

it's the point at which this winding
river run has become blindingly straight
as in a deer's eye, daring the pregnant gun barrel
pushing through the screeching iron baby-bullet.

as in a hunter's resignation,
an ill-fated resolution to pull from within
knowing the nature of
nature's bloodbath.
when camo is cutlery
already ineffectual air sliced by modular liquid hell
if you are spotted and prickly backed
or smooth for water
or hooved for run
or clawed for climb, and feathered for flight
or to soar.
to the equation occasion, add insult to injury

let's make it dark
on a scale of water and totem marks
i can make a plea for sport
just to be fair, but this isn't your game
or is it, black rattler in the holy thicket
for almost black is rich blue which is
to say murky thick crimson
and the interval between the clicks
and the
time
before
the wound.