Do the pheasants know why they are being fed so well?

Do the pheasants know why they are being fed
so well?
Why these glorious September days
taste so damn good?
Why the gods beyond their ken are being
so bountiful and kind?

And if they could reason
would they ever suspect
such fortune
as this
blissful early evening sun
this abundance of seed and corn to gorge upon
as if Life itself
revolved around their bulging bellies and greedy beaks?

Yet
my sudden presence unsettles their busy feasting
reminds them of a scheme of things
woven into the mutant wisdom of their genes
and
they waddle and they scurry and they flap and they fluster
like second-rate clowns
down the grassy hill to a zone
not out of sight
but out of the reach
of this upright creature
who does not possess the double-barreled cunning
of a generous gamekeeper
and a hungry gun