A pheasant burst from the bushes
Screeching its colourful cry
Fingernails on blackboard boards
Ungainly skip to the sky

Pheasants are birds for certain
But must have been at the back of the queue
When flying skills were meted out
Panicked bobbing, gait askew

Yet they must have been at the front
For their feathers of burnished gold
Sleek heads of green and wattled reds
Shades of gemstones bright and bold

The female of the family
may feel she has been cheated
But her subdued shades of brown 
Means she’s less likely to be eated.

Pheasants have been bursting from the bushes every time I go for a walk lately, so I thought I better write about them. I’ve always felt a bit sorry for the female pheasants and their subdued feathers compared to their male counterparts, but it turns out they’re much better able to camouflage themselves and their young, consequently they’re less likely to end up on a dinner plate. A quick search of images also revealed they’re quite beautiful up close.