I grew up in Hermitage Virginia. This is the land of the quail, the grouse, and the meadowlark. There were no pheasants there when I was a kid. I always dreamed of the pheasant though, in his three piece suit, regaling the corn rows and standing like a still life in honey gold and rust red. One day, while I was helping my mother in the garden, a female pheasant strolled out of the woods and across the garden, within several feet of me. We stopped working and watched as she glided across the dirt and through the beanstalks and then, as quickly as she arrived, departed in a flash of feather and reflected sunlight.