With a dowdy guise and sweating brow
he fleeted to the garden window.
The dirty knuckles tapped the pane,
then tried to smooth his unkempt mane.
Quarter of an hour behind,
a louder tap, the second time.
Climbing up the wooden chest
his friend, inside, mutely raised
the panel. A pair of irish eyes
met his, restless, by the garden fence.
Lifting emptied, dirty mustard jars
he joined his friend. They ran a race
to the sunny, yellow wheat fields.
A weekend, last of every month
in groups they hunt, after lunch
for dragonflies. The count inside
the mustard jar, rates their pride.
One with lowest lends his prize,
to the winner; a blue feather
of a kingfisher.