Along the rooftops congregate
the tiny community, boisterous
and noisy, brown-capped busy-bodies
passing on news of the new day,
meeting with mates, proclaiming
potential danger, garden intruders.
At dinner, the table’s an open
contest, a free-for-all without
queues, pressing for full stomachs,
feeders a mass of fluttering
as desperation kicks in, close to
the close of day, thinking selfishly.
The sparrow thinks of number one
the males to their territory and sex,
females to their nests and chicks,
the chicks to their stomachs, mother
and father the providers, until
forced out to face it for themselves.
Comments
skinner_jennifer | August 4, 2010 - 16:45
Hi JamesF,
I absolutely love this poem, it's so real.
I feed the birds every day, It really relates to
the sparrows so well.
You want to see them in the bird bath, talk about
scrapping with wings.
Anyway brilliant work.
Jenny.