The reading glass
falls on the nose,
I adjust.

The swing screeches
needs oiling,
perhaps.

It is the morning sun,
mild, nice to bask
and read.

Encounter a difference.
A peculiar feel on the toes,
a nibbling.

Unmindful, I pursue,
An encore, find three
sparrows.

I drive them away.
They return. I go
into a reverie.

The days,
the youngest
on the lap,

the second born
clings with a grip,
whimpering,

the eldest is busy,
pulls the hair
with a vigour.

The sparrows have flown,

One goes to the farthest end,
the other settles in between, the third
chooses the nearest point.