Poem photo

Zephyrs raced across the hill,

of sunflowers near the old windmill.

Tradition held me in its grasp,

Remember dad would always ask

Are you ready to chase some daylight son?

Grab biscuits, shotgun shells, and gun.

Dove season meant togetherness,

Spent silently in the rising mist.

Dad's hand signals were our code,

When nature's bounty would explode

He suddenly became a kid again,

Along with being my best friend.

Today I watch as Autumn falls,

Remembering my father's call.

“You ready to chase some daylight son?”

Grab biscuits, shotgun shells, and gun.