Prima Don

On the last evening of a wonderful weathered 

                        summer, flitting between the branches 

                        of our rowan tree and the Chinese wind chime    

                        that some like me hear a sound almost divine 

                        while others hear as an irritant in an English 

                        garden, a young male blackbird with yellow 

                        beak chirping - four, three, two, but  rarely one 

                        note and as the Prima Don in the opera of the 

                        evening waves its head and wags  its tail so 

                        belligerently at rivals thereabout, whether 

                        birds, cats or me, weathering our courage.

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