Poetry

Weavers fly to and thro
going over the river
with there nests hanging
in the willow trees
where the leaves becomes alive
in the slight breeze
 
and with silver crystal spray
an African red-knobbed coot
flies up screaming from the riverbed
disturbed by my squelching tread
 
and crowned plovers are more agitated
while I walked along the riverbank
As if I am placing my feet on holy ground.