My birds have been busy,
are resting now.
Earlier,
there was buzzing of roof tops
in a fast game played
before the day got too hot.
The birds play,
I have work
and do not.
I call these my birds
and watch but don’t feed them.
They seem to flow
past the window
on whim,
in patterns undisturbed
by drudgery’s rythym.
I finish work,
they do not.
To wear feathered freedom
must be lovely,
don’t you think,
by magic to catch air
and rise slow
then sink
or swoop to
some puddle for
a gifted drop to drink?
Well.
You might say the bird
is at work
his life long,
chirruping and singing that
‘wake up world!’
song.
If you ask,
“It’s a living,”
he’d say with a yawn.
Robert On The Air 