Woodcock - poem

Walking through my one wood

often at the edges I surprise a snipe or woodcock,

whose jagged path

 defies my ageing eyes.

Every day this happens

but today it's fatal path 

flew towards the house 

where striking the window

instantly it died.

Beautiful plumage,

and most prized game.

Three days it hangs.

I pluck it.

Roast it.

Carve the breast.

And in that flight,

of vulnerability and surrender

we share

the Kingdom of the Air.