Retiree

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.

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