Editor’s Note: With the season — of fowl that is — upon us, this inspired if somewhat tongue-in-cheek composition by our esteemed Judge Jonathan Newell was most fitting. I’m certain many of you can relate.

Twas the hour before dawn and fog covered the creek,

Slick calm and warm, my prospects were bleak.

But I set out the decoys and returned to my post,

Reflecting on which of my boots leaked the most.

I’d run out the geese and they never came back,

Never saw neither duck nor heard neither quack.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Distant ducks? No mosquitoes, swarming quite near.

The full moon had stolen my bench in the night,

And clearly birds were well fed by its light.

Dancing a two step to stay out of the muck,

The hours drug by with no sign of a duck.

Tired, exhausted and dead on my feet.

Disgusted, dejected, frustrated and beat.

I gathered my rig, some sat on the mud,

Found my bench and secured it from the next flood.

I pushed up the hill through the briars and thistle,

When over the trees came a long waited whistle.

The birds cupped their wings and eased all my sorrow,

Guess I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow! -JGN

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