Near to a windowless, collapsing hovel
I plant my decoys in the durum stubble.
Two birds swoop in. I shoot the fall’s first double,
which Alan, awful punster, called a dovel.
Camp Zatarain boasts eighteen types of tree
and fruiting shrub, as near as I can tell,
a cattle pond, a wild artesian well,
its fountain bubbling in a grassy sea.
Long since, this farm was one sodbuster’s dream
of paradise. Here Steve and I have come
each spring to hear the mating sharptail drum,
playing our small parts in our Maker’s scheme.
If I’m let out of hell just once each year,
I’ll come back home and use my hall pass here.