Those Beautiful First Group Bird Sightings.

A cover of coots, water-nymphs tormenting a stilled silence.
A murder of crows, loudly whispering all that local gossip.
A peep of chickens, awaiting a magnificent new morning.
A dole of doves, hiding amongst honey pots lost up high.
A trip of dotterel, wearily gaze on wet withering leaves.
A charm of finches, in a cold darkening night sky shiver.

A gaggle of geese, emboldened watchdogs their territory patrol.
A kettle of hawks, roaming since ancient times armorial.
A siege of herons, Long necked elegant solitary birds stand.
A brood of hens, scratching grey mounds of cold ashes.
A cast of falcons, like weird ghosts haunting this world.
A party of jays, hording and stealing trinkets of gold.

An exaltation of larks, flitting in a thousand and one nights.
A deceit of lapwings, in oak trees hold twilight meetings.
A tidings of magpies, With sheen and green gloss tail.
A sord of mallards, green head and yellow bill ducks.
A watch of nightingales, sweetly Singing day and Night.
A parliament of owls, dusty from flour in an old mill house.

An ostentation of peacocks, an extravagant courting couple.
A covey of partridges, fearless in gorse bushes hidden.
A company of parrots, glistening like shiny fools gold.
A congregation of plovers, a voice ever so silver-tongued.
A colony of penguins, curiously strange slipping an sliding.
A nye of pheasants, flourishing invisibly in pine woods

A bevy of quail, fairy rings hiding them from us.
An unkindness of ravens, haunting those black cold nights.
A building of rooks, swallowing baby frogs like no tomorrow.
A wisp of snipe, Bleating together in wetland waters.
A muster of storks, graceful lanky marsh waders.
A murmuration of starlings, huddle together from a rain storm.

A host of sparrows, beautiful contemptuous uninterrupted flow.
A flight of swallows, those cosy mud hut houses build.
A spring of teal, silver grey flank and yellow tailed.
A pitying of turtledoves, a dainty evocative sounding purr.
A descent of woodpeckers, wallowing in wind blown flowers.
A fall of woodcocks, roaming through those straw fields.

by Anthony Fry

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