A Frenchman's Hunt

In France, where a creek gently flows, A hunter ventures to a place he knows. With his wife ahead, beating the brush, She making the hidden pheasant flush. With muzzle raised, he's poised for flight, As she flushes a pheasant into the sky. He fires his twelve-gauge into the sky, Knocking the bird before it soars too high. Back at home, a fire warmly glows, The scent of herbs and roasting pheasant grows. With wine in hand, they toast to the night, To the thrill of the hunt, and the shared delight.