'Good Morning Mr Magpie'
She saluted, then returned to her grounded
fact-based faith in her own impersonal reality.
Dismissal of her own superstitions,
seemed impossible.
She'd put it down to hard-ass habits
and the cudgels of conditioning
with which we all are kneaded.

Meanwhile in the treetops,
the wood pigeons were rallying.
The magpie's attention saw no salutes,
just a glint of an egg in a ray from the sun.

He cared not who had moved the branch
that let the sunlight through.
He cared not how, an avalanche
had spawned a breeze that this way blew.
He cared not how the leaves had parted
just as he had chanced to fly
through places where the pigeons darted,
inviting his unwelcomed eye.
He held no concept of the quandry
filling his spectator's mind.
She paused, when pegging out her laundry,
and branded Nature, so unkind.

Cold coveter of shiny things, just as so many men...
'Good Morning Mr Magpie', she saluted once again.

Dan Reynolds

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/good-morning-mr-magpie/