By day, he is slow in his practised promenade,
A plump courtier
Three paces behind his imagined king,
Scanning his small estate
With morsel eyes.
Startle him
And he will run
Like a fat boy at a school picnic.
But as day sets,
In the rests between his song of melodious dusk,
Unspoken things may stir
In the rounds of our own melancholies.