Every now and then, people ask
what bird is that? Post me
doubtful snapshots on their phone –
blurred wings, a beak in shrubbery.
I puzzle out the glimpses shown:
to earn a small repute
as someone who may know
is year on year a guessing game.
My neck craned upward, seeking clues,
hush-stepped I pause pursuit
of feathered form before
song steals away, the call unnamed.
Or – to keep my shadow hidden –
stalk the hedgerow, scramble
through barbed wire. With patience test
a binocular field of view.
Or – elbows stiffly propped on knees –
for windy hours on end
I watch where sky meets sea
to mark behaviour, size and shape.
When claiming an identity,
note how plumage can mislead –
the only constant traits
are looking and humility.
x. 2022
