Small Stone #27
In the footsteps of Old Magnificent, the new, handsome, visiting cock Pheasant paces cautiously up through the grass, scanning back and forth for lurking threats. Burnished, glinting breast feathers in the sunlight, he catches sight of me, returning from the feeder table where I have sprinkled seedly temptation before him.
Still too nervous to run towards me (as his predecessor habitually did), he turns and 'legs it' back down the garden, stately, clerical, head rhythmically jutting forward at each increasing step, with as much speed and dignity as can be mustered (the first quickly triumphing over the second!)
I can see him now, from the safety of the bushes, watching, still, peering up at the house, waiting for the chance of the next foray
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