December, A Cock Pheasant.
A December cock pheasant is a splendid bird. His shimmering bronze, gold breast is puffed up with the weight of his own considerable consequence. His long striped tail not only balances his mighty chest, it speaks of luxury and majesty. It whispers of the east. His white collar hints at holy. His royal bird brain is encased inside a knee tremblingly iridescent green head, which his large crimson wattle compliments beautifully. He’s neither a modest nor a quiet bird. His chock chock is as common a sound in the winter, as the bang of the sportsman’s gun. Oh, noble hunter! So skilled in outwitting such cunning prey!
Our December cock pheasant rarely makes more noise than when he’s preparing for bed. On and on he goes fluffing himself up under his tree. Announcing to the world that he’s about to retire for the night. Then, surprisingly quietly, he ascends to his chosen branch. If it’s a dark night, if it’s pouring with rain, he’ll sidle up to the ivy covered trunk, one eye closed. If it’s moonlit, he’ll chat with his neighbours well into the small hours. And if, like last night, there’s a training manoeuvre at the Military of Defence Battle Area, he and every other pheasant in every other tree for miles around will cry in alarm at each boom and thump. The Training Area is about fifteen miles away, not only does the actual thud of a bomb blast radiate out from there, but also the indignant shouts of a million disturbed feathery potentates.
