Birdswatching

Here I sit, at my window,
observing the quiet intelligence
of the magpie.
In a two-for-joy pair, they explore
the fresh turned dirt of my neighbours' garden,
the trod-down dead-grass verge of the park,
looking (I assume) for the perfect bedding,
something soft and tossable and right,
and not something that would better go to the starlings.

Here I sit, at my window,
observing the meticulous nests
of the starling.
Not in their flock, but still as friends, they flit.
The park is a fall away, a metre or so,
and full with future furniture for their young ones,
who they will nurture with crackling songs
in the gutters above my window,
who they will teach (from a distance) about the squirrel.

Here I sit, in my window,
as the morning fog burns off,
observing the back-and-forth of the squirrel
who makes its home where it rests,
observing the decided arcs of the seagulls
curling towards seaside nests,
observing the strides of the neighbour
who clears his garden,
preparing for the heart's labour of spring.