We climb out of bed with sleepy eyes,
mount up into trucks stuffed with gear,
and drive miles to arrive before the sun.
In the quiet stillness, bird of all kinds
sing their good morning songs.
Sons, friends, and brothers gather
on this day to repeat the ancient ritual.
For a day we are united in our purpose.
Birds take flight with first light.
Some would say that we’re here to hunt
mourning dove, little flyers
maneuver with the finesse
of fighter pilots, as they juke and jive.
As I look around I know better.
This is the one day we will all be here, together.
The true purpose of our gathering is the sharing of brotherhood.
A cannonade of shots end the quiet,
and the sky peppered as birds begin to fly.