Sounds of A Fox Hunt

   by Doris Gwaltney

Waiting in a cold kitchen
for my daddy to come home,
I hear, far away,
the sound of his pack of fox hounds.
Not human voices, yet they seem to speak,
to tell of the adventure of running across fields,
of chasing a frightened fox through the woods.
I cannot tell for sure if the fox was caught and killed,
but somehow, listening from so far away, I think so.
The dogs sound so proud, so full of accomplishment.

And then I hear the sound of motors,
Ford trucks and Chevrolets, that usually drive 
farmers to town for tractor parts,
some kind of business.
This is their day off, like the farmers who drive them. 
They’ve been down dirt roads, across short bridges. 
The trucks have been sounding their horns
in a duet with the farmers, blowing hunting horns.

And then come human voices, men out of control.
Men laced with whiskey who might never have got home
except for the ruts in the dirt roads
that hold the truck tires in place.
When I hear the clanging of the metal doors
as they open and shut, I stand and walk to the window.
I see men laughing, I hear them calling out to each other
with jokes, a good goddamn the curse of choice.
I know that silence will come
with that last swig of whiskey in the bottle.
A festive time has come and gone.