A Remembered Opening Day

Hunting season comes around
In Fall of every year;
Through much of this great country
The quest is for the deer.

But, I grew up upon the Plains
Where deer were scarce to see;
It was hunting for the birds
That held excitement for me.

First came dove, how swift they flew
Across the bright blue skies;
To get the hang of hunting them
Took many, many tries.

I think of when the first I shot,
I was well short of ten,
But, I felt that I was mighty tall
To go hunting with the men.

I don't recall who all was there
But, it was at the ranch;
Dad was far the better shot
Upon the family branch.

But, Grandpa was the one who set me
In the pumphouse door
To watch out toward the water tank
For one, or maybe more

Of those swift creature who might
Light upon the fence.
That gave me an advantage
When my shot occurred and hence

I didn't try to take them
As they darted through the air;
No one then had told me
That it wasn't really fair.

So, I set there on a bucket
With Mom's .410 in my hand
And waited for the dull gray birds
Upon the fence to land.

And when one finally did
I carefully lined my shot
And pulled the small black trigger
While pointing at the spot.

And the blast sent me a flying
Off the bucket to the ground
And dazed, I went to looking
If the target I had found.

And sure enough I got him
Though I was somewhat bruised.
Then I dusted off my britches
And ejected the shell that I had used.

I leaned my mighty weapon
Up against the pumphouse wall
And proceeded to the place
Where my quarry had to fall.

As I showed it to my Grandpa
Who was grinning ear to ear
I had to say I wasn't expecting
To get knocked upon my rear.