Robin

Robin

Round and rotund,

with chest feathers as red as blood,

a small, plump, ball of boldness

alights upon the handle of my garden fork.

Resting momentarily

we each, eye the other.

Me in wonder -

Him or her (I cannot tell)

with wary caution.

But my stillness must convey trust,

as

wary bird,

drops to the ground

and devours the fruits of my labour.

Insects and bugs recently evicted,

some what unceremoniously,

from their earthly hollows

by enthusiastic digging.

My newly acquired red breasted friend

takes full advantage of my toil

and does not dwell on the

exploitative nature of his or her behaviour.

Thus forcing me to ponder - is it such a bad thing,

to be so opportunistic?

That perhaps, I should take simple pleasure

in the fact, even though the weeds will in no doubt return,

I have at the very least, fed a hungry bird.