Evidence that Fran may have learned to identify a sparrow at last

Here's a poem about nature that I wrote this morning although my observations were made from the warmth and safety of the indoors as regular followers will not be surprised to hear. 

A morning in March

 

The neighbour has frisbeed stale slices

of bread across his scraggy lawn

beneath the apple tree, its branches winter-bare

save forgotten Christmas lights.

But the birds can take incongruity

with more grace than I do.

 

First come the pigeons, plunging in like gossips

to a whispered conversation.

One triumphs away a whole slice

which hangs uncertain from its beak,

wondering if it will survive the journey.

 

The sparrows arrive next, flitting up down up down

as though on the end of a conductor’s baton.

They peck-kiss at the slices,

checking left and right for rivals,

then dart upwards as though caught thieving.

 

Last, a robin, a lone actor.

It observes from a branch

until the sparrows have flecked away,

then hops to the middle of a slice,

its cheeky breast applauding

against the white of its stage.

'You mean, she actually recognised us?'