I got up at 3am this morning.

I am Sylvia atricapilla in the half-light

As varied as birdlife we appear to each other
here. The contrast between us is as hard to detect
as bat-calls but eyes are on the silhouetted branches
for the moment anyway. A squeaky tit or the sub-song
of a chiffchaff are all we need in these moments
for mirth, poised as we are for the details.

Straight from sleep we appear changed. It doesn't take much
to know each other: we swap animal tales and sheep-worrying,
all ready to admit we're not mushroom people but would love
to see a dog stinkhorn; that we're not into sea birds but have
a shine in our eyes for the pair of lesser black-backed
gulls alighting in unison on the lake. There is time, later,

to contemplate the others' unknowing bird affinities.
I want to be a starling all balls and cheek and karaoke car-alarm,
but in the cool of the pre-day we've created I feel closer
to the gurgling blackcap and its quiet variety, its lack of depth.