Three Bird Songs

Bird Songs

Watching the Bird Bath in Early December

The grey warbler bathes in the water ostentatiously,

Sits on the rim, looks about, then in she goes again,

Until she is weary, tries one more turn, then up and away.

The sparrows come, and without order, do a spin,

Take a sip and poop, fly off and return, as they

Seem too satisfied to sit in a nest and rest

Like old married couples at the end of their lives.

Some blackbirds skim the surface, watch from the fence

For a while, then sit in the fountain, like queens in hives,

Who never depart, until they notice, how thick and dense

Their feathers are, and shake themselves out. What drives

These creatures is beyond my comprehension. To cleanse,

To freshen their wings, to escape from their tedious lives?

Perhaps they are showing off through my own intrusive lens.

The Tui in our Garden

The tui imitates everything, whistles, doorbells, car-

Doors slamming, and loves to sit on the near-dead tree

Next door stripping little strips of moss, then

Sails to the moss-covered bath to bathe her bell-

Buttoned breast over and over again.

She loves to look down on the sparrows, blackbirds and me,

Proud as a peahen, pert as a penguin and cute

As a button. She has no mate, never goes far,

But dominates the garden with her song

And believes—why not?—the bath is her own, her tree

Created only for her and the grey-green moss her own.

She is larger than anyone else, more beautiful

Than any other fowl in the garden or on the street.

The whole world sings in her melody,

Everyone’s voices mingled in one, our star,

Queen of the night, queen of the day, our tui.

Parliamentary Debate

In the parliament of fools and fowls,

a speaker twitters, “Why do the big folk live

in nests of wood and brick, while we are stuck

with twigs and random leaves of grass?”

“I hear they eat us before we are hatched,” groans the grouse.

Another of the feathery tribe declares,

“I am sick of their rolling boulders, the stink

and indiscriminate passage through

our happy hunting grounds. Let us poo

and splatter them with our white graffiti.”

“We must be reasonable,” an elder eider says in pity.

“T’row dem out’er de nest,” squawks the cuckoo.

“They’re not like us, you know, “chirrups another,

“and don’t even know what they are or what colour.”

No vote was taken, as there was no quorum; just quack

And squeak, quardle-oo and tuck-tuck-too.