I know all about the miracles
bred into their peanut hearts,
the hollow bones and half-sleep
while circumnavigating continents.
They sense the earth’s magnetic fields,
the hunger of ice or flicker of beetle antennae,
can execute a thousand beats per minute slice
through air in a whir of wing and synapse
to escape the abyss of my cat’s eye.
They see invisible colours, keep me up
with streetlamp songs; I count their charms-
green for tidings, skeins and murder,
red for chatterings and lamentations.
Each morning I wake to blunder,
rubber booted and watch them lift
in a shockwave of flock and caw –
they know when a storm is coming;
they know a scarecrow when they see it.