Down a Gray Sandy Road

Crawling at a snail's pace,

the old Willys jeep 

was trailing two bird dogs

down a gray sandy road

that ran along patches of palmettos

among the grasses.

Their noses were glued to the ground

as they scurried back and forth

sniffing for the game.

Suddenly, one of the dogs stopped dead in its tracks.

Pointing to something near the fans,

the pointer's tail and nose formed a rigid straight line.

Papa quietly reached for his shotgun

and made ready.

The silence was broken with a simple command,

and the dog flushed out a covey of quail.

A fury of wings filled the air,

followed by a deafening noise of the shotgun.

Without hesitation both dogs retrieved

all the fallen fowl

and were rewarded with a treat and

a pat on the top of the head.

Papa issued another order, and

the patchy brown and white dogs

took off again in search of

more feathers to rouse,

as we followed along

down a gray sandy road.

By late afternoon

we made our way back to the farmhouse.

The other dogs were teeming with excitement

as the pointers were returned to the kennel.

It was near their dinner time, and

all the dogs struck up the canine chorus.

The meal took the bark

out of them somewhat,

and they settled down.

Afterward, Papa and I

dressed the birds

for Granny's frying pan.

After dinner

while Granny cleaned up the kitchen,

Papa and I kicked back

in the old rocking chairs.

and talked about our hunting trip.

The pointers were amazing animals,

but Papa sure had a nose of his own

for finding birds in the meadows,

while we rode down a gray sandy road.