Fledgling

I was picking daffodils when
I noticed the thrush.
A strand of couch grass
showed me her nest
in the hawthorne
by the fence.
Over its rim her white throat
speckled chest
two dark eyes
watching.
I left the gardening ‘till later
so as not to disturb her.

I missed her journeys
to and fro -
went to check,
found the nest
empty.
Glancing down I saw
her baby
on its back
throat stretched
thin, transparent
tiny beak pointing north.

I saw her again
gathering leaves
dropping them
clattering off
into the trees.

A few weeks later
I heard her song
fluting into the evening air
and something in her music
healed me.