Often, you draw our attention by
a clumsy commotion in the tree crown.
What does this battering of branches, this
tumbling down leaf stairs, mean?
Or we have watched your clownish
advances on the roof tiles, little hopeful bobbing
runs and waddling downcast retreats.
Once, while driving, one of your sottish number
flew above my car bonnet, fleeing in the direction
of travel, wings thrashing, a terrified mascot.
In the loopy bird world you seem only excelled
by the pheasant who waits stoically road side
until the precise moment to step into oblivion –
a feather-scatter shot over the hedge.
Nevertheless, I recognize the failing to linger
blithely in the very tread of catastrophe.
One can fancy oneself at peace just
before the smiling sky is due to fall.
And yet you have one trick that turns the
edge of contempt, one moment of grace.
That brief gliding flight – swooping up, half stall
and then the long equal descent. For an instant,
silhouetted against the sky, you seem a portent.
Zeus’ eagle stooping on a heavenly missive.
That impression abides, redeems, rescues,
even if, at the last, you land in a heap.
