Dave Bonta's poem is only a few words long, and it works by sudden contrast. The first two lines are about a mountain: a great peak, seen at night, turns into a pit. Height becomes depth. In the dark you can't see the summit or the slopes, so the huge shape feels like an empty hole instead. It's an unsettling image of something grand turning into nothing, or into a drop.
Then the poem shifts to a blunt, personal statement: "I find pleasure in pistols." The speaker doesn't explain or apologize. The title, "Gun nut," tells us how to read this, as a kind of self-label, maybe half joking, maybe not.
The poem doesn't spell out how the two parts connect, so the reader has to decide. The judging tone feels cool and a little dangerous. Perhaps the speaker's pleasure in guns is tied to the same darkness the night peak suggests. The mood is stark, quiet, and slightly menacing.