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

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.

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