Poetry

In the winter morning’s mist
fat and tame as a chicken
next to the overgrown tree
out came the plover chick
and for a moment I looked at it
and the tiny speckled bird looked at me.
 
A car passed by with its lights
burning like rays of the sun
against the fog’s canopy
and on the sidewalk
the little bird came still nearer
 
and drops of dew glistened
on its feathered coat
and in the wide world
limited to each other’s company
was the little plover and I.
 
There was something to that moment
as perhaps Adam had wandered in the wild
as the bird was at ease
and around us was a kind of tranquillity.