Learning to Hunt

How many colorless ditches 
did we comb, those frozen mornings?
Adamant on marching against the malevolent
winds just to keep our scent hidden
from the roosters. I know you gave me the easy job:
Walk the gravel road and don’t drop my gun.
On the far side, I remember you leaping over snow
and jagged corn stalks like a stag
in your blazing orange vest, rifle at the ready,
intoxicated as the homing bird dog who
tore through the brush between us.