Bird hunter, baseball player

Seated on the dropped tailgate of the old gray Ford pickup,
half a cup of now cold coffee poured from a dented thermos,
three ruffed grouse and three woodcock arranged beside me,
beaks tipped up and legs stretched to launch into a final flight,
blooded feathers smoothed, wings tucked against their breasts,
these far-north gamebirds felled by shots I barely remembered.
Seven shotshell hulls to boast of my skills when others join us,
yellow with dark streaks smeared onto furrows of crimped lips,
the little double gun slipped into its padded case, zipper undone.
Sasha stretched out drying, wet but not cold, muddy paws and tail,
resting one front leg atop my thigh, head with red-raw nose tilted,
snuffling to catch the strong and mysterious scent of woodcock,
languidly proud of her day’s hunting, finding, pointing, retrieving.
I thank her, she sighs contently, resumes her rest, closes her eyes.
Celebratory cigar held smoldering tip upward between two fingers
wafts curls of gray-blue smoke to my own scent-gathering nose:
the sharp odor of pine needles, the reek of moldering aspen leaves,
wet bird dog, burnt gunpowder, marsh water-soaked boots, coffee.
Two, three more puffs on the cigar, and I travel to another time,
long ago and far away, seated on another bench in younger days,
drifting through cloudy memories until they tighten into focus.
Wearing a worn, dirty, sweat-streaked, flannel baseball uniform,
Peaked cap pushed back, sanitary hose bloody in one twisted stirrup,
six battered and scuffed baseballs arranged three-two-one beside me,
three singles, two doubles, one triple, six runs-batted-in, two scored.
In seven at-bats I barely remembered then, and certainly not today.
Old men smoking cigars under the ballpark’s blue grandstand roof,
sharing their own memories through the slow-paced double-header.
One scent of sweet tobacco touched some long dormant neuro cell
that sparked and linked these two sweet moments, decades apart.