Christmas in the Grouse Woods

Through snowy pines and frosted air,
The hunter walks with footsteps spare.
A shotgun cradled, light and true,
Beneath a sky of crystal blue.

The ruffed grouse waits, a shadowed ghost,
Among the birch, its perfect post.
A feathered king in winter’s throne,
Its kingdom wild, its ways unknown.

The dog ahead moves swift and sure,
Its nose a compass, sharp and pure.
It pauses—frozen—holds its ground,
Where wings will rise with thunder’s sound.

The Christmas woods in silence hold,
As time slows down and breath turns cold.
A sudden flush—the grouse takes flight,
Its mottled wings catch morning’s light.

The echo fades; the bird flies free,
A gift of wild eternity.
For hunter’s joy is not the kill,
But chasing beauty through the hill.

And so they walk, as snowflakes fall,
Through cedar stands and shadows tall.
Their hearts as light as morning’s glow,
Where Christmas peace and wildness grow.