Joyful Two Mari Mazwell

Joyful Two

The magpies are courting, in the copse of the flooded field. She nestles in the whitethorn blossoms. He struts then parades his long ebony tail. A coy chase ensues, and He begins again.

He fluffs then fans his wings, glacial shards of alabaster in each stretched feather. Throws her longing come-hither gazes, as he skips from branch to branch. Then, He plunges his beak deep in the marsh, as his tail rises – opens – closes to blinding whorls of emerald shimmers.

At eventide, they sit atop the fencepost, gazing as deer nibble in the field. On high they whisper sweet nothings. Two heads inclined their tails holding the pose.

In the days before they criss-crossed the sky, balance beams in beak, they lay their foundation, twig by twig. Across the Turlough and into the woods. Soon a bulky slice took shape in the crook of the neighbour’s tree.

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When spring has fluffed her skirts and leafy canopies explode across our village, they will be incognito. Ready at last to raise their young. Out of sight and out of mind.

Mari Maxwell

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