I stopped in my tracks. You'd found an interesting landing.
Earlier we sparred (as in my imagination many birds and I do; taunting me along the river path, they dare my switching camera on, just so they can flip a tail and skedaddle). You passed above me, youthful wings outstretched, intent, it turned out, on napping.
I spotted you--the rest of my kind oblivious, but they hadn't seen your earlier searching, I suppose; they missed your invitation--you settled back. You tucked one leg out of sight. You yawned.
You're funny. Drainpipe neck; teardrop body; scissor bill. Yet I love every cascading feather. Did you know one of your forerunners--a female, I like to think--used to fly over my house (this was years and years ago), used to meet me on my jogs (when still I did such things), used to encourage me raising my children? Such an inspiration. A gift.
I pattered closer. You looked my direction and then continued posing. I sidled up to pause underneath the tall lamp. I don't have the greatest camera, so thanks for allowing better access.
The battery warning light flashed on my camera. Of course. The camera turned off, chiding me to replace the AAs. I'd forgotten to bring more along.
But I've learned you can turn the camera back on and it will have forgotten, for now, the warning it just proclaimed. I resumed our photo shoot, grateful.
You made a few pebbly statements. "Hello," I replied, using the same bright inflection I give my kitty, and also my grandson. Those innocents in this world who grant me access.
Thanks for your inspiration.