My people were dog people,
Hunting dogs, mostly,
Shorthaired pointers, lemon and red,
With royal names, Duchess and Princess,
English setters, liver and white,
Each successor named Zip.
September was dove season-
Guns would be cleaned
Trips to the leases planned.
Daddy and PamPa, with uncles and brothers in tow,
Leave in the dark morning
With dogs, guns and coolers in the trunk.
Late afternoon with the deepening dusk
The hunters arrived home
Smelling of fields and gunpowder and beer.
Small still birds spilled from canvas bags,
Tiny feathers and the scent of blood
Floating in the air–
A pitying of dove.
—The Course of Our Seasons, AuthorHouse Publishing, 2011