Pheasant Chase

The ring necked pheasant waits to show

'til nearly stepped upon,

then explodes, squawking indignation

in low flight over morning fields. 

They never fly far, like skipping stones

sinking at a distance you can follow,

keeping your eyes where they vanish 

under mist on grass,

gliding farther from each chase,

adding space, royal dignity of emerald heads

an accusation of your desecration, 

as if I knew what to do when I caught one:

a surrendering of feathers, perhaps,

imparting wisdom or granting a wish
stopped at the river 

I needed a raft to cross. 

 

                                                                                    Cheryl Emerson

                                                                                    7/4/2013