Dove Hunting

Father stalks the
pasture fence line,
shotgun held low
but ready to
track the flight of
a darting dove.
I see his cap
floating over
the ripe fields of
milkweed and poke.

My towheaded
cousin bends to
clasp with cupped hands
his vision of
the fluttering
white butterfly.

In the distance
I see Father
stand up with gun
to shoulder, then
a puff of smoke;
this is followed
by a loud bang.
The way he waves
his green game bag
tells me that we
will enjoy one
more dove tonight.

On the cow path
behind our truck,
the boy holds out
an opened hand,
and from this pad
a butterfly
takes flight again.