Something Not Tamed in Us

Early this winter morning
I saw two cock pheasants stroll
out of our patch of woods to feed
on corn my wife had scattered under
pine trees for the squirrels.
They moved with leisurely step
and pecked at the corn in such
a regal manner you would think
it was a favor to us for them
to eat our corn.
The little birds, the juncos,
chickadees, nuthatches, sparrows,
even cardinals and bluejays crowded
the porch feeder, squirrels rummaged
in the snow for buried nuts,
a rabbit stretched up to gnaw
the bark on a young apple tree.
But these are old acquaintances,
pensioners we’ve cared for four years;
they know where their welfare lies.
But the pheasants, newcomers,
majestic in bronze and purple vestments,
made us feel alive in ways hidden
beneath daily banalities as if we
tapped some spring in a wilderness
hidden in our lives and out gushed
the waters of our beginnings.