Low Bird

“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”


©2019 Lenny Wells

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