Little Friend

Little friend, when do you rest?

You are standing as though idly

in the grass, your head turning

slowly in one direction, then in another

without alarm when, suddenly, you crouch,

flutter your wings and leap into the air

as though to escape an attack

or as if in memory of one to which

you still respond, so deep has been your fear.

And now you’re safe upon a branch

above my head from which I sit

secluded, not to trouble you again.

But then you sail off quietly

to visit branches and parts of ground.

I lose sight of you, just as another

like yourself lands close

to where you stood and looks

in both directions first, before it bends

its head to feed. Off it flies

with something in its beak. I step out

from hiding, reminded of my hunger.

Later, I turn to read the news of state

and individuals and wonder what

the bird is doing at this moment,

now that it has eaten.