Skirting the fields with low skimming flight
like metal detectors searching for bright;
emitting a strange electronic sound,
lapwings stay close to the treasure-laden ground.
Their calls collide curious car alarms
over rural idylls and quiet lowing farms –
the strangest noise to grace broad blue skies,
belonging but evoking urban high rise.
I stop, look and listen at the fields’ first edge
to spy on their strangeness from behind the Hawthorn hedge.
I can’t help thinking that – a bit like me –
lapwings started off as townies before they found the country.