Tapered wings o’er the stubble—
skirting, twisting, and turning
streamlined whispers of dun:
feathered rockets in noon-day sun.
A pair break from the pond,
circling round the treeline
and over the old red barn.
“Incoming!” my partner shouts,
but before I see them
they are gone.
Then a stream from the east,
a flight of twenty buzzing by—
the sound of tearing silk overhead,
gentle cooing fills the sky.
Muscle memory takes over—
the auto pulses:
One—two—three.
Helicoptering feathers
lofting downwards:
A brace of doves,
my buddy—and me.
