THE HUNT

The coveys that patrol the yard

and feed the hawks and bobcats,

multiply, divide and die mysteriously

to be reborn again as families of quail—

watchful pop in front of a string babies,

mom riding drag and tittering ahead.

Great entertainment over the years,

we should shoot a few to split them up

to improve inbred genetics, but

who wants to, like dispatching pets?

When I was a boy, I’d hike miles

with my four-ten single-shot,

trail a few to November rockpiles,

smooth granite dressed in green

velvet moss, while the majority

slipped off.  Atop the rocks, I’d stomp

‘til they flew in a whir and blur

 in all directions. One at a time,

stuffed with slices of apple and onion

baked and seasoned to a burnished brown,

I told my stories of the hunt.