[Poet’s note: No, I’m not a hunter. No birds were harmed, but I dearly love English setters, and Blossom was a remarkable girl, a wonderful companion who exhibited the instincts of setters.]

Blossom, my setter, takes a point
sharp as a blade
and blazes in inchoate passion — 
a thoroughbred in the starting gate.    

Doubt has no place here. 
She knows where quail hunch 
in autumn’s wheat stubble. 
Her nose, ears and flank twitch, 

register the scent of prey. 
A chilled breeze riffles
her feathered legs and tail. 
She trembles with savage restraint.   

The sharp blast of a whistle releases her.
This white-hot meteor hurls the covey skyward.