an eighty first poem...'gerrity'

Gerrity went down the hill.  That was where he went.  Down the hill, down the muddy track, over the loose stones, pot-holes, broken branches, the slippery hill.  And I waited at the top.  And after a short while I couldn’t see him anymore, could only hear him hollerin’.  And I waited at the top, with his pack full of shot, and the rabbit in a trap.  The pack smelled of damp.  Then I couldn’t hear him hollerin’ anymore.  Gerrity went down the hill, and he didn’t come back.  I waited at the top.  The hill was too slippery because of all the rain, and all the water on the land – Gerrity told me – and the fallen leaves. Gerrity quit hollerin’.  I wondered why, but still he didn’t come back. So I opened his pack with the rabbit in the trap. There was a cloth, and some bread wrapped in there.  I couldn’t see him anymore, I thought maybe I could have it.  The rabbit in the trap was for dinner, Gerrity said.  But he never came back. ‘What you cryin’ for?’, Ma said later.  And later I told how Gerrity went down the hill, and about all the mud and stones. ‘Where is he?’ Ma said.  And I told how I waited at the top. ‘How long?’ Ma said.  Until I finished the bread, I said. ‘You wait here, and I’ll get help’, Ma said.