A swan, standing, preening itself obliviously
in the nearside lane of the overpass,
diverts the chance commuters into
storytellers for the day.
One morning, perched on a bird table, a kestrel
was tearing a head.
A pheasant, late in the afternoon, whirred from the terrace
and over the privet.
Earthbound, a hedgehog tripped the security light and waited.
In one late September week, I saw three foxes:
one crossing the car park at Sainbury’s in sunset,
its lean head scanning;
another approaching the motorway across meadowland, loping
securely in wilderness;
the third, dead, and laid, like any dog or cat,
on the trimmed verge.