I am always amazed at how pheasants know how to survive. Raised without parents in batteries, shipped in crates, crammed tight, then released into a wild they have never seen, known, smelled or tasted. A night in a cold they have never experienced, hungry because there is no one to toss them grain, then the next day, they sit by the side of the road, in the ditches, perched on low branches as the men and dogs come to shoot them.
Many escape, more through the ineptitude of the hunters than the good sense of the birds, and a some, at the end of the hunting season are still here, used to the cold, the food they have to search for themselves, and by the spring, they have formed colonies, made nests.
I watched a great bronze cock this evening, crowing on the compost bin, one of his hens pecking about among the grass clippings, and I admire their resilience.
Later, when the sun and the bronze bird-god had gone to roost, and the air was grey and twilit, the owls came out and the bats, all silent, skimming low, skimming off unwary mosquitos, an unwary vole, all in the unbroken silence of dusk.
Today is @TopTweetTuesday day. This is my contribution.
Day began before I woke
while I slept it swum
slow and powerful
as a great whale
into the dark
dispersing shoals of night fish
turning them into blackbirds.