My neighbour stood on the terrace
of his lofty hill home—
a retired army general
in familiar stance—
feet firmly planted, cheek resting
on the rear of his airgun— 
the stock absorbing the aftershock
from shooting a high powered rifle. 
But not for the monkeys. 
A silent cypress quivers
absorbing a hidden creature's shock
till branches go still again. 
He said they ate all the fruit
from his pear and plum trees, 
his blue-netted apples and peaches: 
a pitched battle between primate and man. 
He said the gun had pellets not bullets
went straight over long distances—pricking, startling, 
not hurting, not really. 
Unlike copper coated lead bullets that rotated through distances 
with the aim to maim, kill. 
On a cold rainy morning, a baby monkey 
sat close to its mother on our parapet wall, 
learning to shake out wet fur. 
The sound of a flat crack and the mother fell forty feet below onto the garden hedge. 
The baby leapt after her, clung to her trembling chest. 
Her leg dangled as she held her baby close, 
crawled slowly up the hill to a fruitless
eroded forest flank 
to the sound of flat cracks.