Ducks And Poetry


You Sexy Thing

Tell us all about your best confidence outfit. Don’t leave out the shoes or the perfect accessories.

Duck hunting and camouflage wear has become chic – okay not everywhere.

Here’s my story about…

Well since this story is teeming with verse…

Time for Poetry

This week, we invite you to write a post — in verse or in prose — inspired by poetry.

Ducks And Poetry

Witherspoon and Dudley were sitting quietly in there duck blind on Bagley Pond five miles from town. Witherspoon cared little to be with what he considered his half-witted cousin, but did so out or a sense of family obligation and tradition; they hunted together at least once a year.

Witherspoon wanted the morning to end quickly. So with sunrise and the first sight of ducks over head he took steady aim.

Witherspoon missed his first two shots at a duck.

“Go ahead. try it one more time,” Dudley said to Witherspoon. “Third time’s the charm.”

Witherspoon dropped his rifle to his side and glared at Dudley. “That is the stupidest thing that has ever been said. The third time has just as much a chance as the fourth time and so on as it does the first and second time. You did nothing but distract my next shot.”

“Now ya got to start over,” Dudley said. “You’ll shoot left, then right, and the third time right in the middle. That’s why third time’s a charm is scientific. It’s a fact. Besides it‘s poetic.”

“What if I get it on the second try?” Witherspoon said.

“Hit it the second try you got a good eye,” Dudley affirmed.

“I can’t believe I’m hunting with you,” Witherspoon said. “But I got to ask, what about the first try.”

“You’re flat out lucky,” “Dudley said. “You get it on the first try, it’s lucky as pie.”

“I thought it was easy as pie,” Witherspoon said.

“That doesn’t even begin to make sense,” Dudley said. “It takes skill to make and bake a pie, but if ya get a pie without workin‘ for it you‘re lucky; lucky as pie.”

Witherspoon lifted the rifle to his shoulder as the sound of ducks came from just over the trees. He slid the rifle back down to his side. “What if I miss on the third…”

Dudley interrupted. “That makes you a turd.”

Witherspoon gathered all his contempt for Dudley into one stare. “What about five?”

“Who do you think I am Robert Frost?” Dudly said. “It’s not for me to continually feed your literary and intellectual needs. Next time go hunting with a poet.”




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