By T.L. Coston
The morning at daybreak
On this year’s first frost
I inhale brisk air
And slowly exhaust
Undulating fields glisten a hoary head
Every blade dusted - weighted
Waiting to be awakened
From the Imp’s chilly spell
A cackle from a cornrow disturbs the morn
The king of the fall
A clarion call
The season has commenced
His iridescent crown bobs with each stride
As he promenades Jack’s carpet with confidence - nay, pride
He cackles again, then proceeds without care
Ah, King Pheasant, if this were opening day
