WATCHING MINNIE CHASING CROWS

The spring time walk through dripping fields

where dandelions roar and shake their glistening cobwebbed manes

and buttercups blaze their yellow streaks

between the sodden green blades,

the teaming, steaming sward.



Black birds hop and flap like competing teams of lazy ballroom dancers

and off she goes after them with little hope

prancing through the meadow, leapfrogging damp tufts

in a headlong dash to catch one unaware,

the preening, scheming bird.



She never does, never comes close, but always runs back to heel

as though she had and gets the nod, the look of approval

and a smile or a laugh out loud that sets her off again

on another wild goose chase to try for murder in the murder,

the bird's collective word.



Watching Minnie chasing crows knowing that she'll never catch one.

What simple fun it is, what a glorious past time

not a moment wasted so I could spend all day, a life long quest

watching Minnie chasing crows,

Nothing more absurd.