Three who are one in blood
Without the blessing of sun,
Wade in the brake, a flood
Down the hill, to run
The pheasant cock, gamely hid,
Male iridescence quelled
Under the weedy dun.
Two men and a boy dance
Rifles up, measures apart,
Waist high in the brake for a chance
At the pheasant’s heart.
He runs like a hen, head down
In a cunning art.
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