Our boots squelch, balance entirely dependent on
flapping arms and the promise of bird song up ahead.
Through the foliage below, silver and lapis
can be glimpsed.
Tide slapping the cliffs, spraying salty blisters.
just as the mud bubbles under us do.
Talons hover at eyeline; the huntress studies,
carefully, carefully. Dives.
Our attention is caught by
a rustling in the undergrowth
before we spot her ascent.
Beaked or whiskered, the noisemaker eludes our curious eyes.
Disappointed, we take
and land in the view beyond:
green-gold-red and brown, flecked with neon lichen.
I whistle, attempting to mimic the motley of calls and responses
flitting from branch to branch.
Perhaps I can even entice the wind to tell me its secrets.
The trees join in, adding their groans and grumbles.
Great-grandparents chortling at mere youngsters.
This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise funds for UK wildlife charity RSPB and to encourage an appreciation for nature. If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing/reblogging and/or donating to the RSPB via my Just Giving page here.
Help keep wildlife wild.