The senior judge
Six feet four
Sits astride his mount
Watches two black scouts
Lead up two pointers
Kneel beside them
Stroke their backs
Whisper in their ears
The handlers ride up
Grim and determined
To win at all cost
Times are hard
Each needs this purse
To stay in the game
Cover the nut
They hate one another
But no one else knows
The cause a girl
They both love
But who loved neither
Of them
Each thinks the other
Is the cause
Though it is not
The three judges nod
At one another
Signaling they are ready
For the three-hour ride
Each is secretly hoping
For an early pickup
Allowing a nap
Before cocktails and supper
In the Ames Manor House
The tall judge
In charge
Says, “Let ‘em go.”
The bracemates lite out
Determined as their handlers
To beat the other dog
To the birds
On the course
If there are any
Each knows there might be
But might not be
Knows the birds here
Are fickle as the girl
Their masters love
Unrequited
The dog in front
Catches quail scent
And freezes
Tail at 11 o’clock
Tense
Knows where the covey huddles
Handler arrives
Swings down from the saddle
Draws shotgun from scabbard
Knows from dog’s intensity
Dog has ‘em where he wants ‘em
Murmurs “whoa”
Walks past his dog
Which stays high and tight
Covey boils up
In the pointer’s face
But he only blinks
The shotgun barks
The dog does not sink or chase
That’s a good one in their books
The handler thinks
As his scout waters the dog
Handler swings again
Into the saddle
Puts the whistle between his teeth
Blows one short blast
The dog knows what to do
It sprints to the edge
With the breeze coming at him
Lites out for the front
Tops a ridge
Then unseen by the judges
Busts a covey
No one sees
But his scout
Who rides up and scolds
“Settle down Sam” the scout whispers
Then rides back in the woods
He must remain unseen
For he’s way to the front
And that’s illegal
If he gets seen
But if he don’t
It don’t happen
That’s an unwritten rule
Of the field trial sport
To be continued…