Birds

At the end of my street there is a bottlebrush bush.  Right now it is fat with flowers like big red powder-puffs.  It is laced with small birds, striped in black and white and electric yellow, hopping and dipping and fluttering from brush to brush - swift jabs and sideways darts - lightning quick -
Twittering, wittering, indignant chatter- this blossom best this one better this one mine this one sweet this one in the sun this one red this one redder this one all drunk up- 
I take a step towards them. The bush blurs and the air is filled with swift whirring sound -
Empty.

A big magpie is outside the window next to the front door of our house, clinging to the frame, and trying to batter through the glass into the study with his beak.  I pull the curtain back - his strong claws clamped around the bricks, he stares at me beadily and vents a loud, indignant CAW.  And drops to the stoop and hobbles away, with much backward reproachful glances.  The glass my fault.  He shakes his wings and cries.  Caw!