Quail Hunting, January of '72

You’ve been waiting for this for a long time,
The return to the field
With your Remington and your dog,
Nervous on the ride through the country,
Back in Anderson County
Where it’s safe,
Back to where everyone who owns a gun
Goes quail hunting in the new year,
You pass by other groups of hunters
Gathered in restaurants,
Chatting by the roadside,
On out to the furthest reaches of the county
Where the best hunting will be found,
Your father-in-law and brother-in-law eye you cautiously
Looking for any sign,
You laugh at them as you exit the pickup
And grab the shotgun down from the rack,
Reach into your hunting vest and scan the horizon
As you ram the ammunition into the magazine,
Pumping a round into the chamber
You hear the sound of the bolt going home,
“I’ll take point,” you tell them and they know,
You step off the roadside into the triple canopy jungle,
Eyeing everything nervously, sweat running down your face,
Your mind tells you, “Trip wire,” and you tell them to back up
As you clear the area, listening and listening
Hearing only your breathing and your heartbeat
Motioning them ahead cautiously,
“They’re in here,” you whisper just as two hunters
Break from the cover of the brush,
You draw down on them, your mind tells you, “Friendlies”
You wave to them to fall behind you
Pointing to your forehead signaling that you are the point,
They nervously head for their pickup because they know,
A gentle hand touches your shoulder
Telling you it’s time to go home,
But home is so far away
And your tour isn’t over yet.