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.
Musing from quiet observations.