Brave pheasant

Sunny noon froze in thick, emerald more often. The air at the edge of the dust is also motionless, drunk with the aroma of heated needles, earth and wild herbs. The luminary stands at the zenith, and its rays, breaking through the dome from the leaves, turn into golden arrows that pierce the dusk, lie down in the clearing with bizarre burning spots and force each blade of grass. And in the very heart of this illuminated circle, an ancient ritual is unfolding, like a lead, a dispute for leadership. Two pheasants, as if descending from the pages of an old eastern miniature, froze in a tense pose.
Their plumage is a riot of autumn colors: copper, ocher gold, dark bronze and emerald, flashing in the sun with rainbow reflections. Long, tails fixed to the ground are similar to luxurious train of royal mantles. One, fluffing the feathers to seem more, arched his neck and publishes a hoarse, jerky scream - a challenge that echoing in silence. His opponent, standing sideways, demonstrates his speckled side and a brilliant scarlet light around the eye, ready to rush into battle at any moment. Their brilliant black eyes are logs with excitement and an irreconcilable enmity. Each muscle is tense, each feather bristled.
Around them the forest froze in anticipation. It seems that even the suns rays froze to become witnesses of this magnificent and frantic performance. This is not just a tournament, this is a performance of strength and beauty, where the bet is the right to be the ruler of this sunny spot, this scrap of the earth illuminated by the sky itself. The picture breathes wild, pristine energy, recalling that even in the idyllic landscape, their passions boil.Key images and mood