Whereas I should have been
exercising my mind writing mentally
I was captured by a preening bird
– thoughts ignited in its beauty.
Half concealed by a golden cane
it addressed feathers meticulously,
one eye on me, cagily watching
the watcher.
That it might have been a barred
cuckoo-shrike served no need
in me, we were eye to eye in
sympathy – it and me.
And I lay in the bubbles of the
outside spa luxuriating, bird
contemplating which feather
to preen next, a beer waiting
in frosted glass; we were connected
in a fragile strand of unity bound by its
ability to leave as and when it chose.
And it chose to stay and preen.
© I.D. Carswell 2007
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