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Pheasant Hunt on a Winter Morn

By : Danelle Oliver

The crackling of frozen grass beneath well-worn boots

Is a strong reminder of the cold brisk air.

It singes the nose and burns at the cheeks

But soon all pain will be forgotten.

The dogs bark sharply with excitement,

As guns are readied for fast action.

The clock strikes nine and it is time

To release the springers from the line.

Dogs with lightening speed tear through tall grasses

A loud hard cackle lets the hunter know

That a cock is rising to escape the springers' nose.

A springer's head with its mouth open wide,

Follows the cock to the bright winter sky.

The hunter pauses till the dog drops from sight,

Then leads the bird in its spectacular flight.

An old Winchester gun snaps to the hunter's shoulder

And a loud hard crack follows shortly thereafter.

The pheasant rolls, folds, and tumbles from the sky;

A cloud of feathers slowly drifts on by.

A shout from the hunter sends the dog on its way

To bring to its master the prize for the day.

A pat on the head for a job well done,

Is all this springer needs to return to his fun.