The sun is setting. The game bag is full.
But there -just there – he hears roosters cackling.
And so he sits, paw sore, weary, nose to the wind, ears cocked, ready.
Because perhaps, perhaps, we can go after just one more.
I’ve shot my daily limit. The sky is darkening.
I watch him, nose to the wind and my tired feet twitch with anticipation. I too want to follow the siren song of just one more.
But still we sit together, noses to the wind.
Wishing for just one more.