A Bird In Hand . . .

A Bird In Hand . . .


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“A Day Is Very Long” – Doug Paisley

 

the warm sun of September,
the bitter wind of November.
up and down the valley hills,
over yellow grasses, under blue skies
through the aspen stands and wild rose bramble.
a brown dog lopes ahead,
her tongue hanging, pads worn smooth
oblivious to everything but scent,
unconcerned that the last bird seen,
was some time back.

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hours and hours since an encounter, feet drag
new boots, scuffed by old thorns
shotgun slumps, mind wanders.
inner ruminations of utmost importance,
long forgotten by dinner time.
he pats the weight in the game bag
a gentle reminder of today’s previous blessing,
seemingly so long ago.
that’s been the narrative this year,
here in the hills, or out in the evergreens

an early apex, the drawn out epilogue.

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’Shuffle’

5 Comments

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  1. 5
    uplandish

    Brilliant.
    Grouse are scarce in my haunts too, I am thankful just to hear a flush somedays. Birds that are harvested (usually singles) are almost worshipped from the time they are put in the bag until the last bone is picked clean. Sometimes I don’t think I would have it any other way, especially if the alternative is taking their presence in the woods for granted.

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