10/18/2025
Twas the Night Before Pheasant Season
’Twas the night before pheasant, and all through the shed,
The shotguns were cleaned and the dogs had been fed.
The vests were all hung by the woodstove with care,
In hopes that first daylight soon would be there.
The hunters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of roosters danced bright in their heads.
And I in my flannel, boots by the chair,
Had just settled in with the crisp autumn air.
When out in the truck bed there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from the cot to see what was the matter!
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains and lifted the sash.
The moon on the fields, with its silvery glow,
Gave luster to cornstalks and stubble below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a tail feather flash—and I grinned ear to ear.
A ghost of a rooster! A tease in the night!
He vanished as quick as he came into sight.
More rapid than mallards my heartbeat then came,
As I whispered each pointer and setter by name:
“Now Daisy! Now Duke! Now Copper and Ben!
Tomorrow we’ll chase them through coverts again!
To the hedgerow and thicket, to the tall prairie grass,
We’ll flush them, we’ll track them, we’ll watch the day pass!”
Then silence returned to the frost-covered plain,
And I crept back to bed, heart wild as the grain.
As I drifted to sleep, one truth did appear—
Pheasant season’s magic was finally here.
