"Those were my father's,"
my dad soberly states as he notices
the ancient box of bullets
sitting on the front seat of my truck.
I found them while sorting through
some musty bits of leather, steel, and wood
he passed down to me recently.
I've brought the .30-30 cartridges
to give to a friend I may see later
who owns a rifle in that caliber.
There's no sense in hording
what you don't have.
"Winchester Silvertips--
Like he was hunting vampires."
He smiles at his own joke
as the best of us learn to do
and invites me in to the warmth
of his home.
Neither of us say it, but I'm sure
we're wondering the same
as we climb the snow-covered steps:
Do we ever really kill the monsters
lurking in our forests
or do they get bequeathed
like a beat-up box of shells?
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