Wind by George Bascom

 $Unique_ID{AST00240}

$Title{Wind}

$Author{Bascom, George S., M.D.}

$Subject{poetry}

$Journal{}

$Volume{}

$Date{1982}

$Log{}

                                 LATE ASTERS

                                    Wind

We went for quail one windy dawn,

A tumult of sounds and clouds and light,

Since quieter days we might have gone

Were claimed by work, then, come what might,

Weaponed, we went to the howling hills.

Sweatered and hatted against the cold,

Booted and gloved against the chill,

We strained to hear if a bobwhite called.

But whining wind swirled sound away,

Flattened blue stem down to the ground

While we tramped the slopes through brightening day

Following hard a tireless hound.

We hardly saw; we could nor hear.

The world was wild with rushing air

When bobwhite burst with startling fear

From the boots that crashed their grassy lair.

Uprushing quail met a tumbling blast

That overturned air-wise hens and cocks

To rocketing bundles of feathers that passed

Helpless before us like slingshot rocks.

I believe we fired; I suppose we shot.

Hunters are captives of habit, too.

But bird and birdshot alike were caught,

For the wind was ruler wherever it blew.

Pellets were blown to God knows where,

The untouched covey gone in a breath,

Safe for a time from the shotgun's stare,

Gale blown to safety from gale scattered death.