The magpie shuffles
Both brisk and sluggish
Amongst the harsh, hindering harassment
That is the tall grass, parted by bullish trees.
The magpie knows
In his handsome wisdom
Like an old oak with vast invested visions,
That the wind soars it’s fluttering sights.
The magpie feels,
As well as he flies
From open wasteland to tireless terrain,
That concrete slabs and statues have no flight.
The magpie is,
A farmer of all small
Pieces to forage, cascading his clever calculations
Of separating the crumbs from morning harvest.
The magpie calls
For all other magpies
As fields aching in acres are amply aroused
By the momentary sound of a fellow chirp,
The mellow tweet of hers.