from the nest in the eaves
of the great house,
the little bird
could see.
a sky, blue and flannel grey,
a big ball of sun,
the tips of the tree tops,
down through the branches
and trunks
down, down, to the ground.
where they are bound
to the earth,
by knotty rope roots.
she, the little bird,
could watch the people,
hustle and bustle and
sometimes, but not often dawdle, on the street.
all chirupping and chirking
away.
she could see the horses
and the carriages, going
this and that way.
the dogs that, bark as they
play
she could see all,
the neighborhood cats
as the well-fed,
basked away the day
and the mangy old stray,
hunted for rats..
yes, she kept a close eye,
on all those sneaky cats.
but, what she liked
to watch, best,
what piqued her curiousity,
as she sat on her nest.
was the interior of the bedroom, across the way.
for in there, was a fascinating sight, of
a glamourous lady who had all manner of
wonderful things,
gloves of velvet and
lace and calfskin leather,
fans of painted paper
or finely carved wood,
corsets with whalebone stays
and finest linen underwear
buttons and baubles,
trinkets and geegaws...
strings of pearls and
glittering things..
a parasol, peach-pink satin
to shade her face from sunlight.
but for all of this...
the glamourous lady
came often undone
and sat weeping
on the window seat.
the little bird who lived
in the eaves,
did not envy the lady,
who for all her things
so pretty, was unhappy.
and who so often, grieved.
for the little bird,
knew how to be
content with her lot.
with her nest of straw,
her two little eggs.
she needed no more
than that...and a
view of the street....
so she could see
all those sneaky n' sly cats
perhaps there is a lesson
just there, in that.
