For Tam
Pterodactyls unhasp the ripped wetsuits of their vast dark wings
and launch themselves from the belfry,
flapping into the storm uncertainly,
their tucked bellies
and heads like rifle hammers.
Lightning divides the sky into black portions.
The sniper crouches in the lighthouse,
rain drooling from his propped golfing brolly
as he wipes droplets from his scope
with a damp rag, lines up his shot.
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