THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE BIRDS: Dusk’s Choreography

The breeze summons them at dusk.

“Fresh mosquitoes,” it whispers,

Blowing tiny frills over the lake’s surface.

“Get them while they’re juicy!”

And all at once, three hundred and thirty-three birds -

Finches and blackbirds, swallows and swifts -

Descend in graceful swoops

From the surrounding woodland.

Darting, delighted

Beaks primed, eyes beady,

Eager to feast on today’s bounty.

Intrepid trapezists now joined by bats,

Everyone dives and climbs,

Loops and spins,

Twirls and twists

In an elegant feeding frenzy.

Then, when the breeze bids them good night,

They coast back to green oaks, silver birches,

Willows and corks,

Where they fluff their feathers like tiny duvets

And perch like Buddhas in miniature shrines.

Sleepy dragonflies settle in the reeds,

A pair of Moorhens motorboat from shore to shore,

Frothing filigree behind them.

Fish leap and land in silver hoops

On the lake surface,

Gleaming in the fading light like a Persian carpet.