Last Pheasant Hunt Marzeelle Robertson All day the cold sun is with you through the fields of corn stalks, and maize, waist high, head high, rasping your clothes and skin, wind stinging your face, and on either side of you, rows of armed men. And close to the ground, unseen, the quarry, with elegant, long, striped tails, white collared necks, heads red, vivid green, silent, practiced in hiding, their piercing, bright yellow eyes watching you as you walk by. The dogs, snuffling, tense, barely biding their time, ears primed for a call like a cough, the sudden wing rush and whir of life launched from dirt underfoot into the air, the startled, audible drumming of human and animal hearts, a gunâ€™s report and another, gun smoke, the feathering drift and dart, the hard ground receiving the heavy breasts dropped copper colored like shields in battle, dogs trembling and lunging, retrieving, the whoops and hollers, the celebratory camaraderie in the passionate fields. Then the dispassionate sun abandons the clash and color, the revered wild ceremony for regions more quiet and dim as if all along it had waited for them.
Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College