Is it a wonder that I am more drawn
to watching the birds flit
than to reading your words, again?
You would not blame me I think.

They dive in the mist over loch and glen,
feathers soaked from the constant drip.
No tree a harbor, being waterlogged as well;
some find cover under our eaves here.

But refuge does not satisfy long.
They are out afresh, turning, curling
over the grass, skimming the ponds,
picking up new syllables, dropping commas.

You cannot see their strain,
but when they come in for shelter,
I hear their tiny lungs heave.
Then they abandon their pens, lift off again.

Loch Tay near Killin, Scotland, avoiding my daily poetry read.