THE LAST FIELD TRIAL
crept down from the darkness of the pines and across the gentle folds.
Not an apparition mind you, but real I’m here to say.
A loud thump on my door when the Field arrived that day.
It lay flat, folded in a linear way,
Thin and plain and pale.
I looked from side to side to see who the carrier might be.
But it was the fog that brought it, delivering the truth to me.
The truth of youth and the truth of age,
The truth of death where nothing stays.
Like a Clarion call true and clear,
A sharp trumpet’s blast I was not prepared to hear.
AMERICAN FIELD arched across the top in gothic bold.
It’s been gone for twenty years now I’m told.
No more birds or trials anymore,
They’re only things of legend and of lore.
But, in the banner just below, with garland all around,
Where forever proudly stood the champion of the day,
Was a dog with a striking resemblance
to one I once had, named Old Jay.
The trumpet sounded again, and a chill filled the air.
For after a closer look I was sure he was there.
His name in print, I gasped, how could it be?
I realized them, that cold Angel was summoning me.
An advertisement filled the page, a trial soon to be.
Held across the fields of sedge on a farm in Tennessee.
One month to prepare it read, all entries have been paid.
You’ve qualified for this event. All rulings have been waived.
I had no dog around, or steed to mount, nor reins left to grip.
Nor friend to share my battle with on that midnight trip.
My bag was light and my goodbyes few.
By determination and without delight, I knew what I must do.
When I arrived at barns in tatter and fields all overgrown.
Was but a single swath of winter wheat and that not thickly sown.
The swath meandered along a hickory bottom,
And then toward the east. An eerie somber path to say the least.
Looking down that swath into the morning sun
Was a misty vail that would block the view of any dogs that run.
But without being told, the course lay that way, I surely knew.
For that was the direction from which the Angel’s trumpet blew.
An echoing cry from a distance yon, summoned to a point in time.
“Dogs up…. Let’s go…. Final brace…Get’em on the line.”
No one else answered the call. Was I the only brace?
Again, the call was made. Was this my final race?
I stepped to the line and in the distance saw,
A saddled horse awaiting just beyond the draw,
And just a little farther, looking back at me that day,
Stood my liver headed never failing gladiator, Jay.
And at the side of that hickory glen were two mounted riders,
They faced into the wind.
On arched necked stallions with eyes of red hot coal, each pawing the ground black and cold.
Reins held tight and spurs aglow, their cry went out again.
“Dogs up… Let’s go…. Final brace…. Get’em on the line.”
I knew no doubt that Angel had blown his horn for me.
He thought my time had come and my final brace was to be run.
But I was there that morning to cheat him and run another race,
One that had to be won.
There would be no marshal, or scouts that day, no gallery to watch the flank.
It’d be me, an untried mount, and what Old Jay had left in the tank.
I whistled to Old Jay, and he was quickly at my side.
“Now heel to me,” I said. “Let’s give this bronc a ride.”
Fifteen three I’d say, smooth as silk, with ears that
Twitched when Jay would pass our way.
Now it was up to me, Old Jay, and that black footed bay.
He’d been there before and knew every gap.
And Jay was gliding that day avoiding every trap.
One find, two, three, four, five coveys all.
We were slowly leaving behind that ominous Clarion call.
“Course left,” I heard one call. Two hours we’d been down.
If we were to win that day, we’d have to plot it now.
At two forty down and far to the front we dipped across a muddy gravel road.
I whistled in a well-worn Jay but had to help him load.
Across my lap on the black footed bay, Old Jay lay wet and cold.
He’d run us out of judgement that day, right before their nose.
I was lost but the bay was sure, Jay needed warmth and I needed rest.
The black footed bay stood the test.
For another hour he sped along.
Rounding a corner to an old home.
We beckoned hello and an old woman answered our call.
Her husband showed and curried the bay.
The old woman cared for Jay.
“Not many,” she said, “venture into these parts,
But them that do have mighty big hearts.
Your dog will be fine, given some rest. Seems like he’s passed quiet a test.”
I nodded, and began to sleep, warm now and quiet complete.
It may have been minutes, hours, or weeks, but when I awoke from that deep sleep.
I was home and Jay was at my feet.
It was clear and warm outside, and I happened to see a black footed bay.
Sunning himself in a thick Bermuda pasture just across the way.
About the Author : Danny Bardwell
Visit authors website | View more articlesDanny Bardwell is a construction superintendent who builds large commercial buildings in the Baton Rouge / New Orleans area. For peace of mind and escape from the stress of building, Danny raises and trains pointers with his thirteen year old grandson, Lane.
Danny is a story teller at heart, and often when relaxing he is inspired by some little event or phrase. Lane appears in most of Danny's stories. His stories have appeared in local publication as well as national circulations such as Sporting Classics Magazine.
About the Artist : Kate Hall
Visit artist websiteKate Hall is an outdoor artist who resides on an Angus cattle farm in Tennessee, where she began hunting at an early age. During her 13 years as a flight attendant, Kate visited 27 countries and all 50 states. She now spends her time traveling across the country in search of rising trout and upland birds with her husband and their English Setter. In his first two seasons they hunted on public lands in MT, KS, SC, AL, NC, KY and TN for quail, ruffed grouse, sharptail grouse, woodcock, pheasant, prairie chickens, and hungarian partridge. Upland hunting has enriched Kate's life and influences much of her colored pencil work.
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