Country people rise early 
as their distant lights testify. 
They don’t hold water in common. Each house 
has a personal source, like a bank account, 
a stone vault. Some share eggs, 
some share expertise, 
and some won’t even wave. 
Last November I saw a woman down the road 
walk out to her mailbox dressed in blaze orange 
cap to boot, a cautious soul. 
Bullets can’t read her No Trespassing sign. 
Strange to think they’re in the air 
like lead bees with a fatal sting. 
A walk for the mail elevates the heart rate.
Our neighbor across the road sits in his kitchen 
with his rifle handy and the window open. 
You never know when. Once 
he shot a trophy with his barrel resting on the sill. 
He’s in his seventies, born here, joined the Navy, 
came back. Hard work never hurt a man 
until suddenly he was another broken tool. 
His silhouette against the dawn 
droops as though drought-stricken, each step 
deliberate, down the driveway to his black mailbox, 
prying it open. Checking a trap.