Nature’s Dance
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In the dark chill of the early morning, where the fog meets the marsh,
I’m up before the sun, My breath condensating in the cold December air with each whisper,
my Sitka waders blend with the reeds, quiet as a mouse, hearts steady guns ready, as I wait for the dance to begin.
A group of Mallards break in the eastern horizon, watching their flapping wings fly against the burnt orange sky, wings beating in rhythm, a symphony only God can conduct. Duck calls break the stillness, mocking the wild, inching the ducks closer and closer with curiosity guiding their path.
The world feels still, a halt in the eternal cycle, as green and purple feathers shine in the morning's newborn light, a truly beautiful sight, The crack of my best bud's gunshot shatters the silence, a load of fate that sends an echo bouncing off the water.
Green heads scatter, freaked wings slicing through thin air, but some delay, spinning on a downward trajectory, they’ve met their match, my lab leaps proudly, splashing as he dives in the freezing water, bringing back the beautiful trophies of our hunt.
In the end, it’s not all about the prize, the beautiful feathered game in hand, but the connection to the land and the man, the following of my Dado’s past, to the mirroring calls that draws each flock in, where nature and man dance, and God's raw beauty unfolds.
