A Brief Recap of My Last Excellent Meal







You placed four perfectly crisp, golden-brown quail,
still hot from the pan, onto my plate.We had shot them ourselves 
in a field in November. I recall the dogs -- 
one flushing the birds from dun broom sedge
while the other, its tail raised in semaphore, pointed.
They rushed and paused, swapping places,
following the scents of small things
that hide in grass, in autumn.
I watched the canine ballet, set to the drumming wings
of the covey rising into the cold sky. You aimed your gun, leading just enough
so that you found the bob-whites
 and tumbled them out of their arcing flight.
The panting dogs brought them back to us.
Now, as I lift a bird to my lips, I taste the air and the gunpowder
and the damp coats of dogs and the report of your gun
and your smile
and the field where I stood, admiring.

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