Our hedges are teeming

With little brown birds



From privet to beech,

Grass to nest,



The green fabric

Of our garden.


Bathing in the dirt,

Lifting as one

When disturbed.


Sociable buggers

The little brown birds.


Their shrill calls

Punctuate our days.


We watch them

Going about their business.


Scuffling in the blossom.

Frotting in the bushes.


Watching the feeder

Like tiny hawks.


Peeking over the gutters,

Beaks stuffed with moss.


Nipping away

At our pointing.



Their fledgling dead

On the gravel.


Making themselves


In our home.


Hard not to admire

The little brown birds,


Envy their freedom,

The habits


And certainties

Of their world.


This house is theirs

As much as ours.


When we leave

The little brown birds


Will have the place

To themselves again.


And they’ll wonder,


What were those strange beings,

Where did they go?


The little brown birds

Won’t miss us at all.