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For The Love Of Dove
The Morning sky blazes red.
Glad I’m here and out of bed.
The colors dance, refract in clouds.
Sitting in a field the silence so loud.
I sit waiting for doves to fly.
Silhouetted in the morning sky.
They fly so low, just above the grass.
Pop up quick before they pass.
Stand, swing tail, head then shoot.
Another down I take to boot.
Vision locked on point of fall.
Straight out through the grasses tall.
Out to the point it hit the ground.
Drop my hat and look around.
Until the pile of feathers reveal.
The trail leading to a natural meal.
Pick it up place it in my vest.
Drop it in along with the rest.
Return to the stool hiding in the brush.
Waiting for the mosquitoes buzzing to hush.
Martins dance in peripheral vision.
Verify targets make the right decision.
A dove slides by undetected.
Attention wanders Geese misdirected.
The morning comes to a slow end.
Sharing this time with God and friend.
Waiting for one more to fill my limit.
Hours pass I begin to figit.
Then once more bouncing rythmic flight.
Heading my way this one just might,
Pass in range with one last shot,
Or two or three if hitting not.
Then limit filled I unload my gun.
Another great morning full of fun.
Then without rhyme or reason appear.
Taunting doves both far and near.
Seems to be a hunting common occurrence.
Just fill your hands for bird insurance.
You have to laugh at the rich irony.
When working too hard nothing you‘ll see.
Copyright ©2000 Carl Gerard |
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