Partridge Hunting in an Old Orchard

 

For Ed Ochester

 

 

 

Day had slumped plumply into sun,

apples fermented on the bough,

and I was logy with it all:

 

the gold-orange richness of leaves

imbibing the afternoon with light,

the sentimental scene I was in

 

of autumn things in the autumn,

when suddenly, my friend shifted,

twisting his body, and fired twice.

 

I saw two wings rise from a tree

and move away.  Then, all at once,

they turned and circled back––all I

 

had was an upward twitch in time,

faith in someone who knew the woods

better than I––and I shot straight up––

 

arching back toward what I’d passed,

the whole baggage of my life gathering

in the wake of still air behind me,

 

and I turned to see the bird’s wings fold,

its body fall factual and black.  

 

 

 

 © Tim Mayo

First published in The Fall Equinox