In Distress When Birds Call

Strange it seems to us not the least Whilst watching their withering worlds, Why few wings survive in our midst, Why watchers see less and less birds. If blue caps of rock thrush we miss, Whistling calls of drongos1 so sweet, Paints on parakeets, avian bliss, We've been found wanting, less discreet. The house sparrows—all-season friends, The pairs of busy brownish wings, Who come close to our culprits' hands, Have dwindled, yet, mobile more rings. And where has the pied bush-chat gone? To Indian magpies, robins' ways; Cuckoos, sunbirds, thrushes sing ‘lone, And seen are but on lucky days. Her haven on earth all but died, Whence would paradise fly-catchers come? Whilst food to flies is still supplied, Gone has her fondest breakfast worm. Yet, pesticides kill aplenty, Far fewer green spaces we spare. In zest for an exotic tree, Natives we grow, nor for grown care. Tall towers soar where fields, leas were, Lakes if not levelled, are dug deep, Shallow jheels2, life of wings in air; No more than what we sow, we reap. Birds that were once a visual feast— A gang of crows chasing away A large kite, brave li'le flying beast, Only droves of doves now drool all day— The sole heritage we deserve, Watching birds' fine, do we them love? ______________________________________________________ Drongos1: A local bird of the size of a bush thrush, greyish dark, with a tail like an inverted Y. Jheels2: In shallow lakes birds can fish for food. ______________________________________________________ Happenings | 01.11.12 | Topic: birds, nature