A Good Half Hour in the Garden

the singing of the invisible
known only by deliberate
dark flicks in the shadows
of the spiked leaves sounds
like children speaking very
rapidly and suddenly

she has never seen these tiny birds before
they move oddly
swinging up and down in the air
before landing, she is new
to this place, their song unfamiliar

the noise of the birds
constantly changes,
falling and rising as she enters
the space between two bushes
she thinks perhaps they watch,
and are following her