Feathered Fruit (Poetry)

Birds in the silver birch
a small group — six, maybe seven
dangling like soft feathered fruit
from its long thin winter-dark twigs
their pale bellies catching what there is
of the dull morning’s light

They go about their business
intent upon their task
and paying no heed to the weather
they feed — the slow-quick-quick-slow
motion of their heads as they peck
almost mechanical

They move around the tree
as though they have a system —
some routine they follow without fuss
or fight — each finds his share — has his fill
then when all agree they’ve had enough
finish up together and take flight

I take their lesson from behind the glass
that separates our natures and concerns
it puts a fresh perspective on the day
despite the cold grey drizzle — there they go
uncomplaining doing what they do
a thoughtless life — and better lived that way