I have just fed the
oblivious birds in

appreciation of their
ebullient singsong

and despite their
dumb dawn chorus

waking us. With
spring on the cusp

they should be
self-surviving

but this is a treat
of thank you –

and feed still in
the bag.

I might even give
the pigeons a pass

with their still shitting on
the conservatory’s see-through

ceiling each day,
because I have one.

Maybe it’s just
old wives and

folklore or a
Hitchcock/similar film,

perhaps even
David Attenborough,

but I thought there’d be
more foreboding,

more intuitive rustling
and restlessness

like the rest of us.