Mallards in the Arkansas Woods

Before daylight breaks on the Arkansas woods, we ease that Gator-Tail through the dark,

An hour-long ride through flooded timber, guided by the sound of mallards in the dark.

Cold water pushin’ at the hull, cypress knees standin’ like ghosts in the haze,

Breath hangin’ heavy in the beam of the light as we slip through those green timber maze.

Then it’s boots on the ground where the bottom ain’t soft, it’s that hard-packed mud underfoot,

Every step makes a hollow thump through the timber, the kind only duck hunters understood.

Hands numb from settin’ decoys in the shadows where the flooded oaks reach high,

Watchin’ the woods wake up slow as the first gray streaks start cuttin’ through the sky.

Then somewhere beyond the timber line, a drake cuts loose with a rattlin’ call,

And the sound starts buildin’ like thunder through the woods as more wings answer from all.

Circlin’ once above the treetops, then twice through the openings between the limbs,

Greenheads hangin’ on the north wind, workin’ low through the flooded timber stems.

Feet planted deep in that Arkansas mud, heart poundin’ hard beneath my coat,

Rememberin’ the ride that brought us here in that Gator-Tail boat.

Then they do what every hunter dreams about when December mornings finally come around,

Those mallards float down through the timber, feet droppin’, wings cupped, barely makin’ a sound.

Drakes and hens driftin’ through the holes in the canopy, fallin’ right into the spread,

Like autumn leaves from heaven settlin’ softly among the blocks ahead.

The woods go silent for a second, just water drippin’ from the oak limbs overhead,

And all that’s left is Arkansas timber, hard mud underfoot, and greenheads in the decoys dead still in front of the blind.