“Low-bird”, someone called, from the next hay bale down
Unknowing of whether or not I was some novice
Who may riddle his skin with birdshot
On this hot, September afternoon
Wedged between a new pecan orchard
And a cut sunflower field
The birds poured in
To run the gauntlet of 12 gauges peppering the sky
A half a box of shells to get warm
And the birds begin to fall
The cries of “low-bird” trail off in the gunfire
As the doves, quick learners, fly higher
After a time, shoulder soar and bruising, unsure of just how many
I count out my twenty; five over the limit, and leave
As I walk the dusty field to my truck, the birds are still flying
Off in the distance I hear someone cry, “low-bird”
9-11-2013
©2019 Lenny Wells
Thoughts From The Orchard 