In the midst of pots and food,
above the whir of oven's hood
a tip-tapping sharp and hard.
At the French windows, so close,
a visitor to our house, stranger
from the land of grain, my youth.
Rare pheasant, tame at my sight,
perhaps befriending a reflection,
strutting the patio, raised head curious.
'Adopt it !' my son had suggested
though he , no doubt, would say fair game,
thinking of sauces and fattening.
She stepped the stone as if on ice,
once lying down like it was a nest ;
for hours beaking on glass, obsessed.
With the darkening evening, gone.
Pictures a proof it was not delirium,
no messenger from barley-fields once known.
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