On the Preserve Before the Season Opens

Debra Daniel

We train the dogs on pen-raised quail,
putting out twenty that scatter 
like a load of birdshot, seeking cover
in the chopped stubble of harvest.

Ranger tracks singles, points
until a male is flushed, retrieves
without mangling feathers,
a soft-mouth denial of instinct.

Holding and backing, Keeper 
shows her breeding, heeds 
commands of, "whoa," and, "easy,"
from a voice wintered and deep.

I obey, too, still as the setter
locking eyes with the bobwhite,
listen for my father's boyhood
in this fallowed field.

Day tenders into night
worn and faded as his chambray shirt,
buttons missing, musk of morning
still folded into rolled sleeves.

Men leaning against tailgates
clean birds, rumble a hunter's litany:
ring-necks, coveys, Canada geese;
while behind the barn, quail sleep

circled, facing out, and in the truck bed
I sit cross-legged, soothing tired dogs,
untangling burrs knotted under paws and ears,
knitted tight to belly and chest.
    

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