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In front of our house, there’s a bit of a green,
Where mere grass and a lonely bush fares,
And this morning I gazed out upon this dull scene,
While hanging net-curtains upstairs.
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There on the grass was a flock of fine birds,
Grey heads with a chestnut bronze back,
Their ginger buff breast was too striking for words,
And the tip of their yellow beak, black.
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“Turdus Pilaris”* is what they were called,
A quite common species of thrush,
And I watched all these fieldfares, excited, enthralled,
As they circled our solitary bush.
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They had no opponents, so perhaps they were training,
And stretching their muscles together,
Probably cursing because it was raining,
And grumbling about the damp weather.
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The fieldfares looked up as he marched to and fro,
And I fancied I heard several muttering,
Probably hoping he’d turn round and go,
With his dirty great tail feathers fluttering.
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I turned to the curtains and threaded them on,
While cursing the way they were sewn,
And when I turned back, all the fieldfares were gone,
And the crow/rook was all on his own.