As pheasants through the shelt'ring brush...

As pheasants through the shelt’ring brush,

By thorn and bramble, on we rush.

Some cautious, measured, others bold,

Some fearing fears as yet untold.

Where some charge headlong, others sit

With shuttered eye and wings close-knit.

Below, the ground, sky overhead;

There freedom, but the lurking dread;

For those who dare to take to wing

Provoke the final, fatal sting.

The question: sit, or fly, or run? 

Which first will draw the fowler’s gun?