In Price’s Bottom Fields, just after first light
I called up a hen and started a fight.
Cutting and cackling, putting and cussing
We went back and forth ‘till we tired of fussing.
Then a gobble rang out from across the creek
And in the blink of an eye I was off on the sneak.
I took off my shoes and my socks in a flash
Then slid down the bank, my best not to splash.
The ice-cold water came over my waist
But the bird was hot and I had to make haste.
I crawled through the privet, briars and muck
‘Till I finally caught glimpse of my tom in full strut.
I sent out the notes of a seductive young hen
And the old bird gobbled again and again.
Finally, I accepted that he just wasn’t coming
As he just stood there strutting, spitting and drumming.
The last thing I saw was his feathery butt
As he went the other way, still in full strut.
But as I laid there shivering, cold and wet
I knew I wasn’t done with that ol’ bird just yet.
I grinned to myself as I watched him leaving
I knew where he roosted, and I’d be there that evening.