Not all cats are playfully aloof, Or queens of household staff – There’s some will never steal the show In fairytale or video. And likewise, on the busy midnight roof, They’re just some riff-a-raff – While toms compete and loudly brawl, Some kits can barely catawaul.
Not all cats are masters of their strut, Or lords of backyard realms – For some are timid, peeking out From under sofas, wracked with doubt. They know they’ll never truly make the cut, Their poses underwhelm – And so they snuggle-up indoors Where we protect them from the wars.
The first lone mayfly of the year, And Spring is on the go – Looks like the merry month is here As evenings make a show. The bulbs give way to tardy blooms While cuckoos boast their song, And mayfly brides greet urgent grooms – For Spring won’t stay for long.
The Catholics do it ev’ry Friday, Or so they often claim, The Protestants, only during lent, Attempt to do the same. While unbelieving heathens such as I May join in, if we wish, But just as an excuse, in the event, To share some tasty fish. We only seem to think of it in my day, Just as Easter comes. But still, the start of the weekend is well spent In batter or golden crumbs.
English sheepdogs, Highlands cattle, Marbled corneas in snakes, Stalk-eyed snails with pop-up headlights, Caterpillar eyespot fakes. Staring cameras tend to rattle, Black-walled, with a glossy sheen – So mask them, yet still feed them light, With eyes that see yet can’t be seen. So wear a pair of shades ? Sure, that’ll Make all nature look so cool… If only ancient life had bred right, We’d now be inscrutable ! Vision is a constant battle, How to let the photons in ? Yet we all see the infrared light Not through eyes, but through our skin.
Quetzelcoatlus, how did you fly ? By gliding on thermals ? Rarely flapping ? How did you launch your bulk to the sky ? And your massive head not handicapping ? Could you be becalmed ? Or even be-galed ? If the breeze were too strong, could it blow you over ? For every take-off, how many failed ? Were you more a hopper than cloud-top rover ?
Quetzelcoatlus, how did you fly ? When the zephyrs tugged you, how did you cruise them ? No point to ask evolution why – For you only grow wings if you need to use them. Could you be grounded ? Or just never land ? Soaring the oceans, wind in your hair ? Did you make runways along the strand ? The answers, alas, are up in the air…
By ‘wind in your hair’, I’m referring to their proposed feathers.
And since there are five of them shown above, should the painting be called Quatzelcoatli ? No. No it shouldn’t, as I’ve discussed here.
Compared to a tiny tiny fruitfly That we barely see, A bluebottle blowfly is a shiny guy, At half-a-bee. He must be big, because He is born to make a buzz – To-and-fro, darting, wheeling, Watch him go. Small enough to hang-out on the ceiling, Yet large enough to bounce against the window. My my, What a fly ! What a glow !
Compared to a tiny wee mosquito That we only hear, A cranefly is as silent as it’s slow, And nowt to fear ! Their leatherjackets may Be skeeter-eaters in their day, But there’s no meat on the menu Once they grow. And how they grow !, these slender-friends, These stilted-striders, palm-wide gliders, Gone in just a mo. My my, What a fly ! Magico !
Compared to a tiny tiny dancing gnat Within a cloud, A robberfly is big and fat, And ludicrously loud ! Aerial assaulters, Whose cheerleader-halters – Beat like a motorbike Or dynamo. With mouth-pike and bug-eye – Each giant part in all its art is big enough to spy – And what a show ! My my, What a fly ! Now you know.
There are plenty of people that will tell you that crane flies are not mosquitos and they do not eat mosquitos. They are wrong on both counts (for a given value of mosquito – they are certainly more closely related to each other than either is to a housefly, but they still went their separate ways way back in the Jurassic.) Most adult crane flies have no mouthparts at all, and their larvas are mostly vegetarian. However, with over 15 thousand species, there are always a few edge cases where the leatherjackets do sometimes eat those fidgety question marks that are mosquitettes.
Photo taken in South Korea by Hyeongchol Kim. I suspect this shows an attempt by the crow at mobbing.
Stirred-Up Eagles
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know The first thing about a bird – The very idea that they carry their kids on their backs Is clearly absurd. Now ducks will swim with their chicks up-top, But no birds fly with the over-slung. I mean, how would they even flap And not dislodge their precious young ?
From the moment they are laid, they are watched – For racoons and owls are swift. And long before they’re fully fledged, They’re far too heavy to lift. They never leave the nest until they start to branch, And not for long. Until at last, they fly away, all by themselves, When the urge is strong.
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know The first thing about a bird – A shame, for the metaphor of these loving parents Should be heard. And a basic grasp of aerodynamics Would quickly scotch such a fantasy – But above all, enjoy them for what they are, And not what prophets would have them be.
Turkeys – Flightless birds that secretly fly, Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk Far too trusting, never shy, They land on our tables with barely a squawk. Despite a mislocated name, From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms, Across the Atlantic, on they came, With a help from Scrooge to boost their charms.
Turkeys – Flops and bombs and guano stinkers, Showy quills, but soon forgot Once back to work with Winter blinkers, Far from the rounds of the turkey trot. But still, they are a feast well-spent – And even cold, they set us free… With a pardon from the President, Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
I grew up on farms, I knew my barns, And knew the owls inside. As paragons of myths and yarns, They sure did love to hide. But even with their silent wings, I’d sight Their calling card, And know they still clocked-in each night From pellets round the yard.
The barn owls are the perfect owls, In look and lore and size. With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls, And wisdom in their eyes. Until, that is, they won’t stay mute, But let loose with their speech – And utter not a single hoot, But a disappointing screech.
I heard the twits and twooing too, From tawnies in the trees, But only from a distance, flute and mew, In two-part harmonies. Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek, Not the trill of charm – The wrong voice for the owl I seek, Of the poet of the farm.
Owls, of course, have their own concern, And do not care for me. And I should take their lead to learn To let their natures be. So when the golden hour is full of cries I now can grin As the night-shift owls in the barn arise And start reporting-in.
Rhyming Couplets 