I was minding my own,
kicking along
through beech mast
and leaf-litter
down by the pond
when it spat into flight,
a head-shot triggered
from ground level, a bolt
of rifle-straight bill
and chevroned wings - one wingtip
feathered my temple.
But no trace
of its skulking, no tripod footprints
or needled mud, no lair or scrape
where it had crouched, cocked
in the scrubby margin.
No spent cartridge.
I looked it up
in an old field guide: snipe:
to aim a put-down
or snide comment.
Single round,
lone marksman.
Could have had my eye out.