The magpie

What to make of a large magpie
slipstreaming my shoulder
as I cycled into a combative westerly?

Its red-brown eyes flared with curiosity
at the awkward knee pumping
which propelled myself forward.

A silver-white beak marked it as adult
and the grey on its neck as female.
I’d seen her before by the beach,
not this bird’s natural habitat.

Did my visor-beaked white helmet
signal an older bird in trouble,
elbows like broken wings,
straps of a backpack fluttering
like loose tail feathers?

We seemed destined to connect for some reason,
battling 40-knot puffs of the devil’s breath
and whatever aging threw at us.

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