Mated Pheasants

Their carriages are upright
in a dry green.  They stand
at once passionate and familiar.

His beak is respectful, level,
rather than diffident in uptilt,
his tail a downward sloping tube

like a story.  His face is bright
and remembers everything, one formidable claw
hangs, while flat the other holds him

steady to the earth, hangs gloved
in dust immeasurably.  While she
in straight grass stands

popped-up from an unexpected bush.