“On the great book that’s titled Pheasant Hunting
this is the cover photo,” Steven says.
Heavy cover varies from brown to baize
silvered with frost, with not an arctic bunting
spinning above November fields. A blaze
burns in the last leaves of the shelterbelt,
but not a pheasant flushes from the veldt.
To every hunt we drive more than an hour,
talking of God, St. Peter and the rock
on which He built, talk about length of stock
and trigger pull, competing ammo power.
Leaving at O Dark Thirty, God O’Clock,
we prove once more there are more ways to pray
than Stevie’s pastors or my priests can say.