Morning stroll.

Crossing a bridge over a busy highway.
Below, cars jockey for position.
At high speed, they dart in and out,
Passing one another,
Frantic to get somewhere quickly,
No matter the risk.

I walk on.

Every forty yards or so, I hear the next birdsong…
Each repetitive, but musical and unique, and therefore beguiling.
Relentless, they call out for a mate every morning.
They are so determined,
And will not be denied this.

Now in my 70s, I am in no hurry to get anywhere.
Nor do I need to mate.
What’s left?
Musing from quiet observations.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s