jumping jacks, 9/August/17

the sound of jackdaws trickled from the canopy, you could hardly call it a song…. jackdaws don’t sing although no doubt they think they do in their tone-deaf innocence….. light lost its grip on the shadows collapsing in on itself leaving the dark propped with rookery trees….. almost as if today has surrendered to tomorrow already to become yesterday……… I think I’ve neglected my jackdaws of late…. taken for granted as for all their obvious presence it’s so easy to let the slink into a background hum…. they don’t nest in my chimney anymore, good thing too, since I netted it over having once almost had a chimney fire with all their nest sticks……. nor do they strip bitumen from the roof of my shed, it too like the day collapsed last year, not down to jackdaws I hasten to add but a aged laburnum which gave up the ghost one stormy night……. this time of year they at least double almost treble their number as fledglings join the throng and when the wind is restless so are they, launching themselves in sympathy into dervish circles beneath which I’m adrift is a sea of black jacks….. en masses, to land and then lift off again to their own cacophonous countdown this disorganised clouds of chackles pockmarked with rooks with whom they share the rookery, or jackery……. during the day they litter the garden in search of worms, bugs and other entomological tidbits with young ‘uns displaying blue-eyed mischief for trying anything and everything…. “what does this do?”….. “what happens if I stand on this?”….. “does this taste nice?…. yak!”……. we exist as long as somebody remembers us and even though I don’t talk about them every day they’re always with me, never forgotten…….

© robert greig 2017

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