He thought it lovely to die in the snow, on a Sunday, with his Grandfather,
in the woods.
Hunting season, a foot or two, and rising still. Bright orange on white. A little brown and a little green peeking through.
A heart attack is how it happened, everything still and quiet.
I knew I would go this way, in the snow.
Grandson took his rifle, took himself, and they both lied on their backs
looking up, rosy cheeked, snow falling softly on their open eyes.
And what was the reason?
Do you really need a reason?