Cock Pheasant

The pool of morning lay cool
and quiet behind the garden gate,
earth broke from its winter skin,
a white-faced moon retreated
down the sky, a shaggy oak kept
its dead leaves, if roots uncurled
from tulip bulbs and sap swelled
lilac buds they made no stir, even
the air warmed quietly in the sun.

Along Dry Run trees held bare twigs
without a sigh, arches of dead weeds
looped over the garden’s edge, rotted stumps
of cabbage exhaled a sour breath, a row
of cornstalks crouched on stiff knees.

From a clump of thick grass
a cock pheasant shattered the
morning surface, exploded in purple
and gold as he rocketed through
sunlight, his hoarse yell broke open
the silence and suddenly color and
passion recovered the day for us all.