Round and rotund,
with chest feathers as red as blood,
a small, plump, ball of boldness
alights upon the handle of my garden fork.
we each, eye the other.
Me in wonder -
Him or her (I cannot tell)
with wary caution.
But my stillness must convey trust,
drops to the ground
and devours the fruits of my labour.
Insects and bugs recently evicted,
some what unceremoniously,
from their earthly hollows
by enthusiastic digging.
My newly acquired red breasted friend
takes full advantage of my toil
and does not dwell on the
exploitative nature of his or her behaviour.
Thus forcing me to ponder - is it such a bad thing,
to be so opportunistic?
That perhaps, I should take simple pleasure
in the fact, even though the weeds will in no doubt return,
I have at the very least, fed a hungry bird.