Ruffed Grouse

How the grouse walks,
fastidious in the placing of his feet
as he is in dress,

treating each hanging foot
as it were a bomb
spelling the earth's destruction,

a peculiar gait,
making one ask for reasons.
Who is to say

why this meticulous brain,
picking its way,
rejects one particular leaf,

or why it waits,
pausing one foot in shadow,
one foot in light, immobile?

Not the grouse himself.
He is subtle.
His projected self leans forward
and hopes to see.