Poetry of K. A. Markee
On Sundays too he would rise before dawn
and brew a pot of coffee over the fire,
then call the dogs with a backwards yawn
before packing up decoys, weights and wire
in a wicker backpack and two homemade hods.
I’d wait until I could not see my breath–
The sunrise over the lake he said was God’s
own reassurance in divine faith.
So he and I would watch it dissipate,
lying in wait for a chance to imitate
the mellow rasp or nasal hailing call
in ruffled light behind the deadfall
and under the waning eye of Orion
the dog’s Hup our command bird on, bird on.
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