It leaps from bog and watery fen,
to make it’s airy dance.
It darts and weaves above the glen,
to give me but one chance.
I see it move, and hear it speak.
It’s flight is hard to follow.
I know this game of hide and seek.
It rushes on, across the fallow.
Now, the gun is set in place,
and recoils hard against my shoulder.
The mind has figured out the pace.
The day has just gone colder.
So, let the search to find begin,
to grasp the prize at end of race.
The joy and pain are mixed within, for this angel, fallen from grace.
— Nick Kenney, c2001