From the morning wood
a single bird’s
calling card
comes and goes,
comes and goes.
Herald of spring —
though now his earmark’s
only echoes.
A hen thrush
on the lawn
upholstered
like an ancient aunt —
and just as curious
when she imagines
you’re away, and as affronted
when she finds you aren’t.
A wish
like spoken Irish —
the corncrake’s rasp
a gasp
for breath.
Who knows,
or who would say,
what goes
unpunished
underneath
the judiciary of crows?
A ratchet turn.
Quickened breath of wings
spins your gaze
westward —
and they grow on you,
those coaly spots,
a crowd of crows rowing
nestward.