The country cascades. Everything moving, drifting along on gentle river of earth and sky.
A setter. Another and another.
Setter long tails and feathers matching the cadance of grass.
The grace of dog and desert steppe, the dance of the driven, the music of gentle December sunlight.
Grass everywhere, belt-deep, tawny. Breezes talk, whisper Coues deer and Mearns quail. Yarn of past hunts, decades and dogs gone.
A few thorns here, but mostly a stroll, a waltz, a flow like clear water over polished stone. A solid point. Honor. And more honor. Mearns burst, twittered alarm and shotgun shouldered.
In the evening, quail broiled on oak, tangy sweet spice of hardwood smoke and mesquite. Hatch chilis roasted. Agave sipped. Dogs resting, sated. Dreaming. Cactus dreams. –TR
Mouthful of Feathers 