Season of frosts and wild Woodcock;
Close-breasted friend to brook and stream,
With feathers soft and preened,
she lies amidst some leafy screen.
And sometimes, in melancholy flight,
Meanders, oblivious to pending plight.
Hunters tread, where once did yield a mossy bed,
To fill the sky with hungry lead.
There is no place to rest
Beat pinions; two and fine
And now another crest enshrine.
Where once a-plenty,
Now so few.
What injury brings them to you?
And soon there could be none.
What have we gone and done?
Charles W Pinckney 2017