Life would be much more pleasant for the pheasant if he didn’t taste so good. 
 
Rain is always disastrous in town but in the country, where brooks need feeding and you can hide away in the evening by an open fire, the morning after rainfall smells fresh and full of possibility. The pheasant will be striding in the woodland, go for a walk, find him, watch him breathing blue-vermillion, and then come home. 
 
Perhaps you know a soul like the rain-clear country morning, perhaps the colours move you to a recollection, perhaps you know an ornithologist: write them a letter.