I thought the dove was the bird of peace
but here they were shooting them out
of the brush
and climbing up the sides of mountains
and banging them down;
and everywhere the doves went
there were the hunters
blasting and beaming and blasting,
and one man who didn't
in the slightest
resemble a dove
was shot in the shoulder;
and there were many complaints
that the doves
were smaller and scarcer
than last year,
but the way they fell
through the air
when you stung the life
out of them
was the same;
and I was there too
but I couldn't shoot anything
with a paintbrush;
and a couple of them
came over to my canvas
and stood and stood and stood
until I finally said,
for God's sake
go look at Picasso and Rembrandt,
go look at Klee and Gauguin,
listen to a symphony by Mahler,
and if you get anything
out of that
come back
and stare at my canvas!
what the hell's wrong with
him? the one guy
he's nuts. they're all nuts,
the other guy said. anyhow,
I got my 10 doves.
me too, his buddy said, let's
go home: we can have them
in the pan
by 2:30.

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