I watch the flocks above the hedge and wonder what their motions mean,
If feathered tribes might mirror us, in faiths and thoughts both sharp and keen;
For nature speaks in riddled signs, in glinting wings and drifting air,
And bids us ask what truths are shown in every flight and perch laid bare.
The doves move soft in quiet rings, like monks in gardens wreathed with peace,
Content to brood in folded calm where tempests fold and quarrels cease;
The larks rise singing skyward hymns, cathedral choirs in soaring flight,
While cheeky robins strut the boughs with unbelief yet warm delight.
The sparrows, humble, steadfast souls, flock round the crumbs with neighbour’s grace,
A parish bound by daily bread, by common hearth and modest place;
And jays, the watchful, upright few, take only seeds their law allows,
Yet feed beside the other flocks with measured calm and steady vows.
A murder dark of crows descends, no creed they claim, no shrine they keep,
They wander where the shadows stir and scratch the furrows bleak and deep;
And pigeons crowd in bustling throngs, in clattering wings and greedy cries,
Who push aside the gentler birds and guard their patch with hardened eyes.
So at my feeder, day by day, I witness parables in flight,
And ask if we, in feathered form, reveal our truths by appetite;
For faiths and flocks alike may show through how they gather, feed, and share,
And still I stand in wondering thought: what kind of bird would we declare?
(By John Shenton)