|
|
Doves, Doves, and More Doves
The best day of the year.
Anticipation like a wave breaking the shore.
Men line the field placed in their best guess.
Gun at the ready shells in the vest.
Stools out, plugs in, one last check of the gear.
Dawn reveals doves racing and more.
What kind? How many? Which ones to take?
Ethical hunters avoid the fakes.
They bounce, they race, they whip past my ear.
Buzzing the tree tops or high they do soar.
Dodging pellets to the morning feed.
Past water, gravel, to the fields of seed.
Some pass close and shots we do hear.
One tumbles down and lands at deaths door.
Eyes locked on the spot and quickly proceed.
My buddy still out on a long retrieve.
Quick to return my limit is near.
I check my vest, all but four.
Sitting in soy, doves fly shots rip.
I try to recall a similar trip.
When birds flew by before late season fear.
Opening day, so many guns roar.
I watch as a single bird skirts next to a friend.
Think to future, when will I come again?
The day is over time to shift gear.
Smoke poles away we repeat the old lore.
Tales of feathers fly rapid and free.
The lucky Coo as they light above in the tree.
Copyright ©2000 Carl Gerard |
| |
|
|
|
