Top_Heavy's World

The bird hesitated, pinned down by instict, that long inbred notion to sit tight when a predator moves near. It crouched, muscles ready for a burst of use. The plumage, for all of it's luster and variance, was perfect camoflauge. Hues of greens, gold, and brown blending perfectly with it's surroundings. The sun, still low in the morning sky, magnified the beauty through the morning dew. Spider webs hung heavy, tiny droplets evenly spaced, hanging from each tiny thread. Each tiny thread leading to another in a mosaic of pure beauty. The hint of wind bowing the thin blades of grass the web was stretched between, each silver bead straining to hold on. The fall colors beginning to show. Not the overwhelming color of fall, but a hint, a splash, rather, a foretaste of the feast to come. God's tapestry just starting to show His new seasonal theme. The smells of harvest were on the air. Corn was being cut for silage, the long white tubes laying like caterpillars along the field edge. These huge storage containers would provide energy, and support life through the hardest days yet to come. I knew the farmer, a short man of thick stature, would be in the fields for many days, enjoying the perfect weather as we were. I was breathing in the splendor, each passing second a gift to all.
The flush came quickly, so fast that it was startling. I was ready but a moment before, and now, with the world set in slow motion, this blur was too quick. I felt rushed to catch up. The mystery of flight... wings pushing down, feathers straining as they push to defy gravity. Tips bending back... reaching... the body is set free, it no longer touches the earth. The spring in the legs gave lift, catapulting, and starting the rise. The head reaches forward then back, seemingly not moving on a body in motion. The tail opens wide, the balance needed. The bars of brown on gold become visible as it rises to clear the stems. The green head, with brilliant red comb, leans forward, a straghtening of the body as it moves from rise to fly. The golden eye is accented by this red skin, free of feathers. This skin is used as a headdress in the spring, a sign of vitality and verility for all other suitors to see. The waves of grass are clear signs of the strength, pouring from the parted feathers. Like a hand, reaching toward the heavens, fingers spread, the wings move. The view almost a blur, but the sight was magnificent.
He held his stance, perfection if ever there was. Paw extended, raised from the soil. Head low, eyes wild, but fixed on the location of the prize. His white body held firm under the great stress, The tension of muscles, long trained and well nourished, showed clearly. His great height, nearly half again taller than the norm, was reduced to a single clean line. From high, a stiff tail, unmoving, raised at an angle to the ground. The smooth transition to the body, across the slighly crouched hips was flawless, blending together and bleeding forward up the spine. The chest, so taught that the ribs shown clear, leaned close to the ground. His neck, stretched forward and down, leading to the square, massive head. Ticking of black, few and almost nonexistant, were the only colors save the split liver head. Unusual in pattern and lacking in markings, left this statue a sight to behold. Art, if ever there was. A master piece to even an unknowing eye. A line so smooth, angled so perfectly it formed an arrow to show the way.
His eyes transfixed on the bird, his huge brown nose following the flush. His chest rising ever so slightly to fully see. We became one for a breath, feelings, rooted deep inside, merged as our souls united. I knew the moment, we had shared many. His heart beat with mine, our blood boiling, bred for a few opportunities like this. I felt him, he was ushering me to do my part, to join him in this dance. The Montefeltro, warm and rich, wood as spectacular as the day itself, came to my shoulder. The balance, graceful and smooth aligned with my vision, a uniformity of repetition. Like an extention of my being, the flow, the follow through, the tightening on the trigger. The tension between us lessening in the tiniest of movements. He folded neatly, gravity again in control. I exhaled, a simple long breath, a sigh of relief yet almost of dispair. The retrieve was complete, rough but expected, his beauty was in finding, seaking and standing. I forgave him the extra marks from excited teeth after every journey.
We had our limit of birds, the day was of a dream. We slowly headed in the direction of the truck, the first step back into everyday life. I know of an old tractor, not often visited. I stopped there to feel, to imagine the life that it once had, the uncountable numbers of birds it had seen. I shared my bounty, a moment of my time, and knealt down beside it. This is the memory I got in return, for spending that special moment with that old tractor.