Outside the bus station
You’ll see them –
At least, we did that night –
Doing their drunk’s bop
Version of flight.
They flicker back
Into the small urban tree’s domain.
The wind won’t seem to let them go
And so they give us an evening show.
All these long-tailed tits
With their blunt switchblade tails,
Chirp for us –
And the people stop.
The market traders cease packing up,
A wino’s distracted from his piss;
These aren’t the tits he’s looking for,
But still he stops.
He, and all these city slackers, stare.
Just, for that evening,
You might swear
That their buses didn’t matter,
Their text chatter didn’t matter.
You’d swear they almost seemed to care,
With a hushed…
What are those birds doing up there?