A Sunday Morning Waterfowl Haiku

Jon Farrar says:

Jeff – All right, I took your bait. Nice “presentation.” I think that is the word you bass fishermen use, or it that just fly fishermen? Why do I suspect this is in response to my earlier post “Any Room for Relics” where I whined about never getting enough room for all the words I want to write on….well, pick your topic. Conciseness is not always a virtue, some of us believe. So, here is a test: At the end of your haiku, what do I know that I did not know before reading it? Or, maybe I should turn that around: What don’t I know at the end? Or maybe they are the same. Hurts my head to try and sort that out, too similar to reading instructions on how to assemble something.
Since I knew all those shooting the geese I’ll let full disclosure slide, others may not. Here is what I would like to know: Where were you hunting, what species of geese, big ones or little ones, any banded, did they decoy properly, who the hell did all the shooting and all the missing, what direction was the wind from and velocity, was the bacon thick-sliced, maple flavored or not, were the eggs scrambled or over-easy, can Fowler do an over-easy without breaking the yolk, did any of the geese decoy just when the bacon and eggs were ready to serve, any dogs to do the retrieving and how did they do, does “down” mean dead and recovered or just the geese were feeling unhappy that morning, did anyone in the blind tell the story about the farmer with the three-legged pig that was too good a pig to eat all at one time?
I’d estimate you needed at least 2,000 words to do this story properly, 3,000 if you found some appropriate quotes from the olden days when writers wrote longer than they do today, and readers read longer than they do today. Actually, I have one more question: Is haiku a sort of writing something like abstract art, where you stand back from the painting, rest your chin pensively in your hand and say something profound but with no information, something like “Really interesting brush strokes.”
I know this is not the real Kurrus, the one with words oozing out of his pores, spilling onto his office floor, and washing down the hallway past my broom-closet office.