bird
by eamon byrne
Ah now, behold this bird. This silly little bird. Holding in his claw his piece of bread. His feathers white, his yellow comb. So proud to show his comb, designed to catch the eye of that other he's so attentive to. Though she indifferent to him yet walking near. They weave between, all but dance in their clumsy way. He drops a piece and looks a-sky. She turns away, comes then around, nibbles at his gift. The breeze raises a feather on her wing. So close they now. Together on the grass beneath my tree. Silly birds. One looks at me then flies into that tree. Preening his wings, he raises his comb to her. She flies up so, a nearby branch. Tomorrow also. One day after another day. Be there when I'm gone. Long gone. Not they. Forever they.
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Irish nostalgia. Beautiful. And I like the discreet flirting games of the cockies.
It could escape notice -- until the ending--that the real subject of this is life in time. The time of the mating dance, the time of human life, of generations. And how the minute actions, closely observed, can suddenly veer into the ontological. As seeing veers into idea.
Love this. Keen, moving.
"He drops a piece and looks a-sky."
Thank you both for your kind words. The birds described are sulphur-crested cockatoos. To say that life goes on would be too mundane. The world itself says it better.
Thanks Dianne for your keen eye. Lots of interesting hyphenated words should be in dictionaries, but they aren't.
This piece is like a little dance itself. Beautifully done and a real delight to read.
Thanks Darryl. A complement from you is special to me.