Young bird

You are tiny.

And appear on the next branch of the blackcurrant bush to me.

I decide you are young, on account of the soft downy, fluffy feathers at your chest,

Somewhat dishevelled.

You are inches from my face,

And, most startled,

As am I.

But in that instant,

Of, a fraction of a second,

We are equal.

We meet face to face –

Eye, to beady eye.

And the disparity of size is lost –

To me.

It’s not lost to you.

You wing it,

Not – in panic, but in sensible caution.

You didn’t mean to come that close.

You didn’t mean to make my day.

Published by Schnark