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?'|