It's her idea of resting. Feeds them grain.
Smiles as they cluster round her when the rain
is falling and she keeps them dry. Their play
their fluttering so often turns to rut.
When sparrows mount, they chirrup squeak and trill
in small hot ecstasies that rise until
they satiate. Sometimes she cracks a nut
crooking her smallest finger – feeds the meat
to favourite birds that come at her command
and peck it from the hollow of her hand.
She quivers from the light weight of their feet
As sensual as they but far more strong.
They trust her, eat, continue with their song.