Heather Pound

a plump little song thrush perched on top of the apple tree

where dewy leaves had appeared only just this week

it sat nonchalant as if to say, “no need to look.

i am just watching the day pass by.” but the worm

waving in its beak when its head flicked back and forth

told a somewhat different tale.

the charade continued until the other birds in the garden flitted away

and the seagull overhead soared on past, wings outstretched wide

then purpose, intentionally hidden, struck sudden and sure

leaping into the air, like an arrow towards a target

the thrush shot into the hedge.

hopefully high enough where my inquisitive cat

will not find the babies most certainly nestled there.