The Fox and the Pheasant

The pheasant flights the wooded trail
in flight for fear of fox,
feathers falling, winds prevail
as woods fail before lochs.
The geese's niece is faint
as though she hasn't flown so much,
as woodsman plays the saint
with gun stock, trigger set for touch.
As faint, the pheasant flies to roost
upon the branch of birch;
the saint, the woodsman gives a boost
to fowl caught in the lurch.
The fox's locks of auburn, white
come warily through the wood,
to see the woodsman 'ere he'd bite
and put him down for good.
Pheasant breathing coo in tree
calls fox's ears away,
before the lochs demand their stocks
for foxes lost in play.
Investing in black powder, lead,
the woodsman sights the dog;
the fox has seen so rests his head
aside an old dead log.
Patiently the man can see
this time is not his due,
the fox behind the old dead tree
is barely in plain view.
The pheasant slightly settled now
decides her place is lost;
as fox and lochs and walnut stocks
portray a higher cost.
Her wings see rings of bitter things
that circle her life now;
flightless, might less, how it stings!
Her choices bruise her brow.
Woodsman, saint, not very faint,
but hurried by his day,
returns to chores of his aquaint
and lets the creatures play.
Pheasant now quite pleasently
perceives a lesser plight,
and slowly tries to look and see
which way to play her flight.
The fox's locks call woodland fleas
that irritate his mind,
he'll scratch and occupy his knees
with comfort, being blind.
The pheasant quickly flies away
up to the sky of blue,
to find a place to safely stay
a place to hide her hue.
The fox has chewed his hide in loss;
the fleas have wrecked his plan.
No food for fox or woodsman now;
no brood for pheasants nest.
The lochs have won again somehow
desiring nature's rest.