Friday night,
the temperature crisp
and the sky clear.
Promising fine weather
for Saturday's early morning hunt.
Friends arrive at the house
making sure they have their shells
and camouflaged coveralls.
The flavor of goose jerky salivating
on everyone’s taste buds.
While sipping on a  Bud-Light can,
not bottle,
they go over the layout of the land.
Where the blind will be,
how to set up the decoys.
Knowing the pre-hunt ritual like the back of my hand,
I tell him I'm going to bed. 
he nods goodnight
as he heads out the door with a handful
of fake-up-close yet
realistic-from-a-distance geese.
Loading them into the bed of his beat up Ford.
I switch into pajamas to the rhythm of
clunk clunk clunk,
from the plastic hitting the metal,
and foot beats in and out of the door.
Just as my eyes close into a heavy slumber,
the goose calls begin.
Of course,
they need to practice.
This part, I forgot.
I listen to the grunts and squawks
of a so-called goose until it is only slightly
muffled by the pillow over my head.
I look at the clock and think,
"it's midnight, they should be done soon."
Then I hear another empty soldier hit
the wood table , and the fridge door open.
The ppsssssspp of a beer can tells me
I should set the alarm a little later than 5:30 a.m.