Boots crunch over stalks.
Irons in hand.
Father, leading son and pulling dog
into a clearing known for
life of another sort.
Skin pale and stretched
and covered with goose bumps.
Eyes dry but searching
for the slightest glint of feather
across the whitewashed backdrop of morning sky.
Father raises his iron and
shoots at the ghost of a bird.
The percussion reverberates musically, endlessly,
and we wait and hope
as our stomachs sing their own chorus.
A single bird emerges as if from nowhere,
a fluttering so sweet,
grace beyond imagination.
We track its path,
father and son and dog.
We track its path.
Father raises his iron once more,
leading the pheasant into the ether.
He stops, distracted.
We watch and listen
as the pheasant turns into a speck, diminished,
and we are left staring at
the blank palette of life.
