Magic of Scent

Setter, Peregrine falcon and falconer,

Team in the field as light is fading,

Pheasants leave the woods to feed.

Bahri skimming the ground

Flying as hard as she can,

Ahead by some two hundred yards

Determined in her own mind.

Climbing away over the Hall

Before turning, still hard in her pace

To the dying light of the western horizon.

Frost is heavy on fields cold white,

Ice hanging long dead grass.

Blaze running hard in work

Her solid point melts.

The falcon ever higher

Wings beating thin crisp air

The quarry runs

Under this frightening silhouette.

Not to get anxious,

Recognise the urgency of serving,

Waiting for the Setter doing her part.

Quartering the ground searching

Chill air for the magic of scent,

For the trail of a running pheasant.

She has it again 'Good girl',

It has soon moved on.

Again the point frozen

Like the scene around.

A splintering cloud of ice.

Confidence coalesces in flushing pheasant

Mystical being of another world.

Passing close over my head,

Thrilling moment of action

The falcon rolls into her stoop

Falling teardrop in fulfillment of being.

Tough late season cock pheasant

In peak of condition

Beating hard on stiff wings

For the safety of trees.

In awesome inevitability,

Bahri explodes feathers,

In a gently floating cloud.

The cock falls

Into the icy green of winter corn.

Tight turn losing speed,

Talons grasping in thrilling enthusiasm,

Slashing spurs against sure footing.

Old year ends in shining wonder,

In awesome style under the evening star.