Dawn Dance
Spring, Pennsylvania morning, crisp and clear
Sitting patiently in a blind listening with an ear
Was that a putt, a purr, or a gobble
A light breeze passes and makes my decoys wobble
Bright flares of orange fire consume the East
I am set up where the hens choose to feast
The silence is broken by the fly-down call
Still, Tom is tight-lipped and says nothing at all
Hens hit the ground and begin my way
The Old Tom speaks, and he has much to say
I see him struttin’ in the old oak tree
Will my seductive calling bring him to me
The sun climbs higher in the eastern sky
Still waiting for the Tom to leave the oak and fly
With a flap of his wings, Old Tom glides to the ground
Landing gracefully without making a sound
Should I call to the Tom as he struts
He is already gobbling to the hen as she putts
Old Tom closes the distance one slow step at a time
He stops, puffs up, and spins on a dime
His tail feathers glow in the bright morning sun
My heart is racing will I get this done
Six ladies feed as he struts his stuff
They show no interest, but he doesn’t give up
Spittin’ and drumming, showing off in the sun
It is at this point that I wished for my shotgun
With only my bow and Old Tom putting on a show
The hens decide to move on; it is time to go
The hens feed over the crest of the hill
Old Tom disappears, and I still have a tag to fill
It is not every morning I see this ballet
But this is the perfect way to start my day
I’ll be back tomorrow for another chance
Maybe I will get an encore performance of the Dawn Dance
