The Curlew

The Curlew is usually cautious.
She flies away swiftly on approach.
The flash of her white rump feathers
The long curve of her bill.

Maybe the winter has caused her to throw caution
To the wind.
Hunger overcoming fear.
Today she flew in and landed close by on the shore,
As I walked past.
And yesterday she was feeding
Among the oystercatchers on the grass.
I’ve never seen that.

If you don’t see her though,
By the seashore in the winter,
Away from the moors where she breeds,
Listen out for her call.

Plaintive, haunting, melancholy.
Beautiful.
A challenge to the throne
Of the nightingale
So they say.

Better than anything I could sing.

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