and when i moved toward him, he hopped back one post
   just enough, never more   

and when i was on one side of the canal
he'd be on the other   pecking hay out
of a bale just beyond the buck-shot

and while i walked dejectedly home with
the gun on my shoulder he'd flap safely
overhead   knowing i couldn't hit
anything on the wing

we spent a summer together    
i crisscrossed our farm through three cuttings of hay & he
   kept me company      just out of range

if i left the gun home   he'd come nearer (though still out of reach)