In the pre-dawn cold we gather,
Stamping feet, blowing on fingers,
Waiting for the cook-stove to heat coffee.
Stepping into icy cold water
Is a moment of pure faith, belief
That your waders haven’t sprung a leak.
Ice broken, decoys placed, guns loaded
We take our places side by side
Waiting for that magic moment,
Half an hour before sunrise-
Shooting Time.
The sky is low and misty,
Filled with wraith-like clouds
Out of which ducks appear and disappear
Like Vegas stage magicians.
The six-year old with us can see ducks
Far better than any of our middle aged eyes.
“Four! Straight ahead!” he cries,
“Don’t call, just shoot!”
In a few years, he won’t even bother to tell us,
But right now, he won’t shoot
Without his daddy’s permission.
A single green-head circles the blind
And cups up directly in front of me.
Deep breath, hold it, aim, squeeze.
The shot echoes off the surrounding trees.
Feathers drift silently to the water’s surface.