Hen Pheasant

Dusk fills the grove and seeps
to the fence where my barnyard flock
clamors for attention, but on the
sunset side, light flames briefly
toward the stubble on the meadow’s
face—look, no, only a bush shivers,
the clucking fowl scratch toward
their roosts. A tree breathes, leaves
peck at the wind, wait, again,
see, I think this time the view
has spoken. Is it? oh, look,
unbidden as beatitude, delicately
parting coarse grass, sleek-satin shy,
the brown bird, folded in her dignity,
as delight comes through the slow
beating heart, leaves the wilderness
for an instant’s home in my eye.