Meeting a Pheasant Hunter in Our Grove

The bush’s shape has been bent by the wind
from the bush in the seed from which it grew
though the leaves are the same and the flowering time
and bark and color are inherited true.

It set down its roots outside of the grove
where the northwest wind pushing up the hill
its load of weather could batter about
the shape of a bush it couldn’t kill.

I’ve stood there myself and been glad for legs
to carry me into the shelter of trees
or behind the barn—is it something like wind
that makes one goose different from all other geese?

That makes me think it is wrong what you do?
I’ve a house to go into and so have you
when God ruffles the sky, what storm somewhere
has made this difference between us two?