There is a bird,

a common bird, whose call

pecks small choice morsels from the trees.

Gourmand of eucalyptus,

connoisseur of pine,

he takes small bites,

four or five at most,

then rolls them on his tongue

and in his throat.

He'd warble them like fine white wine, if he knew how,

and I imagine, when another does,

he's listening, learning.

He's in no hurry.

Waits minutes, more sometimes

before he bends to blossom, leaf or bark again,

and some days, after four or five, just stops.

He's savoring what the trees have given,

enough for any given day,

letting the salt sweet bitterness,

as I his call, sink in.