Track Four

A breeze moves through, rippling the morning rays.
It lands in front, still young, pecking away like a drinking bird.
Head up, head down, black-tie dinner; royalty gets the pick.
With a peck and a scratch, it lets out a cry, then stares straight at me.
I stare back. My hand twitches before I think.
One for… No. It’s just a bird, stupid.

It flies to the fence, then hops the narrow edge like solid ground.
With memory older than learning, it races along the rail.
It cries out again; from somewhere beyond, the queen answers.
Indifferent to snoopers, the bird carries on.
The queen arrives; the couple make their royal descent—the feast awaits.
Two for… well, no. They’re just birds, stupid.

They feed together, no movement going to waste.
No omen interrupts the business of breakfast—black and white flickers.
Peasants in dinner jackets, a dynasty at the dinner table.
A third drops in, a prince quicker on its feet.
Three for… again? It’s just a bird, stupid.

Food and water. Maybe they like leaves. I’m not sure.
They carry on, whatever that might be.
We’ve hunted them for centuries, feared them for longer.
No grudges, just doing bird things.
They cry in unison, sorrow, joy, girl,
a boy, silver and finally—they squawk, and they feast.
Six for gold joins. My palm starts to itch. Must be payday.

It’s just a bird, idiot. Let them be.