Beautiful Pheasants

They're introduced, but they've made themselves at home, these Chinese ring-necked pheasants on the Dakota plains. Ye gods! they are beautiful. I am told that, as a baby in my natal state of South Dakota, I was fed quite a bit of creamed pheasant. I had my first bird epiphany as a toddler, hanging onto my father's legs as he plucked a pheasant in a toolshed, a single light bulb hanging overhead. "Was it a mommy pheasant or a daddy pheasant?" I wailed, torn apart at the thought that my father could shoot this bird whose beautiful feathers rained all around me. I'm told he didn't hunt after that.

This is not why I love them now. I love them because they are extravagantly beautiful, unexpected, delightful in the extreme. It seems too good to be true that they could take hold here in America, walk across the road in front of my car.

Let us celebrate the pheasant.

Like a poppy in the grass he is.
He can be contemplative on a rainy afternoon
or straightforwardly splended in his layered silken cloaks.
There is no question that he wishes to be seen.
even down to the ear tufts few are privileged to glimpse.
Ah, pheasant, sneaking through the grass, I cannot get enough of you.
Your mate, demure in khaki, hides without trying, fading into the glory of you.
Rooster, springy in tail and gait, I love you, and the pictures you paint in the waving grass.