Don't even think about it chum !

I'm glad it's a new week tomorrow. I have been pretty lazy this week and am hoping for better things.  November is my least favourite month when lethargy always sets in.  Today however I have cleaned the bathroom and finally hoovered the stairs and upstairs.  There were dust bunnies everywhere.  Had a look for photos in the garden to no avail.  Until this year I had two or three naked ladies but suddenly they have been appearing everywhere.  They stand there for about two days and then fall flat on their face.  All of them had collapsed in yesterday's wind so I resorted to the bird feeder where there were the usual sparrow wars going on.   Always makes me think of Norman McCaig's poem.

Sparrow

He's no artist.
His taste in clothes is more
dowdy than gaudy.
And his nest - that blackbird, writing
pretty scrolls in the air with the gold nib of his beak,
would call it a slum.

To stalk solitary on lawns,
to sing solitary in midnight trees,
to glide solitary over gray Atlantics -
not for him: he'd rather
a punch up in a gutter.

He carries what learning he has
lightly - it is, in fact, based only
on the usefulness whose result
is survival. A proletarian bird.
No scholar.

But when winter soft-shoes in
 and these other birds -
ballet dancers, musicians, architects -
die in the snow
and freeze to branches,
watch him happily flying 
on the O-levels and A-levels
of the air.