BIRDSONG

TOE PRINT

You left a feather on the grass, one I hadn't seen before. I picked it up, and loved the tawnyness of it, and ran it through my fingers, smoothing it to see the grey flecks, an almost tigerish camouflage. I looked for another, but only found a huge toe print in the mud by a forgotten plant pot filled with fresh rain. That was a huge toe print.

So, you had drunk of the rain, and left a gift. It was September, the right time for your amber colours. I put it in an empty thimble vase, and watched it in different lights. Always it was right, for hiding in the fields in every light.

So then, is the rest of you still out there watching me? I am not camouflaged at all. I realize the blackbirds know the minute I come downstairs asleep to put the kettle on. Before I am awake, they are queueing by the gate, swooping as if by chance to make me glance if I should fail to respond, bleary-eyed, breadwise and crumbwise, refreshing water, breaking ice, sprinkling grass seed.

And you? You do see me, yes, you see me. Your eyes are tuned to movement, and you see the stumbling shadow of me in the morning behind the glass. You must laugh at the sight of me, all bulk, no stealth, you with the toe print huge like mine, your grace, legend.