Sep 8, 2018 · 1 min read

As I tread on the treadmill,
open to the grass,
shielded by glass, I see
birds busy pecking the grass
for their food,
for each one’s share.
The beaks constantly nipping the grass,
The little brains active engrossed in ferreting out the next spot,
Spot after spot they prick, pluck and pick.
One day, I felt like being with them,
Yet away from a distance,
Like my usual treading;
Not to hurry and harry
Each other and anyone,
Just be,
Not scuttling, but just searching;
I, slowly walking,
Not pacing up, but gentle and just watching them,
Waddling, hoping and sometimes strutting
For their delighted find!
Instinctive are they,
There is a quietude in that scuttling,
that stays with me
as I see them fly away.
