From time to time I’d hear gunshots
But they never registered as anything other than white noise
They were like chirps from baby birds overzealous to fly
Young bucks with buck shots tryna do more than get by
I’d ask my mom why they did it and she’d reply
“Them boys start acting up when it get warm”
She’d never go into any more detail than that.
Sometimes I’d listen for the chirps to ring out in the dead of the night
Then I’d check then news the next morning see if I had heard right
And sure enough, it was another baby bird who’d jumped but couldn’t quite fly
A pheasant tryna be falcon, unaware that to fall was to die
Another empty nest, and survivors left to cry
I guess it was just too warm.
A Blank Space 