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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.
Copyright ©
Clarence Carlson
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