Pheasant Moon.

Winter hovers,
hawk on the wind
scans the frost.

Afternoon moon,
marooned by night,
grows pink in the low sun.

Starling clouds
billow home,
north wind
stirs the firs.

A commotion of pheasant
from the larch wood
hints at foxes.

Tonight,
under the pheasant moon,
I’ll creep into the larches
to snatch a bird
from its low perch.

Takes more skill
than
scattering lead.