I was sitting upon my perch in a tree,
thinking of all that I’d seen,
And I tell it to you, so you’ll think on it too,
and tell me what it could mean:
The start of the day I took to the air,
gracing the wind with my wings,
when deep down below I seen a small mouse
carefully stretching his limbs.
It was at this point my brother flew down
and captured a meal for his bairn
-the sorry wee mouse did scream just a minute,
but, truthfully, quick came his end.
The other mice took cover in homes,
and whatever was good to hide in,
and that’s when I saw how they scornfully peered
at me as if I was Satan!
Now, birds, we do have a sense of religion,
and we won’t wait too long near a pew
out of simple respect for the persons below,
we might hover or land for a few-
but off we will go, some carrying treasures,
sounds of the people we found,
Thus, Satan we know, thief of such leisures,
he is to us shaped like a hound.
And the insinuation by those field mice,
that I might be anything near-
to resemble a hound, a demon, a vice,
this struck me a pain that would sear.
And away I did fly, farther up in the sky,
to watch the hills below,
but the look in the eyes of the creatures who hide
made me feel trite, ugly and low.
Then I landed just here, on the perch in this tree,
and listened to sounds in the breeze.
The leaves they did chatter, the insects crawled on me,
and the ambiance was quite what I need,
For here I am safe, from the hunt and their gaze,
and fastened secure on a bough-
the first place I kissed, when hatched weak and helpless,
the tree is a wet-nurse to all.
So I talked to the leaves in the whistling breeze,
and I cleaned my beak on the bark,
and shook off an ant, looked towards the ground,
and wondered what thisall was about.