Our hedges are teeming
With little brown birds.
Flitting from grass to nest,
Privet to beech,
Darning
The green fabric
Of our garden.
Bathing in the dirt,
Lifting as one
When disturbed.
Sociable buggers
The little brown birds.
Their shrill calls
Punctuate our days.
We watch them
Going about their business.
Scuffling in the blossom.
Frotting in the bushes.
Watching the feeder
Like tiny hawks.
Peeking over the gutters,
Beaks stuffed with moss.
Nipping away
At our stonework.
Dropping
Their fledgling dead
On the driveway.
Making themselves
Comfortable
In our home.
Hard not to admire
The little brown birds,
Envy their freedom,
The habits
And certainties
Of their world.
This house is theirs
As much as ours.
When we leave
The little brown birds
Will have the place
To themselves again.
And they’ll wonder,
Who were those strange beings?
What did they want?
Where did they go?
The little brown birds
Won’t miss us at all.