Bag Full Of Shot

I pray in my dream to be a poacher, and to run at some hundred sorts of game on this estate--all the subtle and variegated things, a tactic at least to levy against each one. Snares at a flexible tempo, rods camouflaged and dipped in the water, rags fitted snug over smoking barrels, and barrels with their lids pried off.

Houndsteeth and buckled boots and bristling leashful of hounds, on a smoky November day--I'd like to be a thief, a blackjack, against that and of it.