Where there are chickens
There is always an egg hunt.
The bower bird clears the ground
And builds a nest of search-selected sticks
And brings from both near and far
Bright colored baubles
Then dreams that they will catch her eye
And waits, and hopes and fusses and worries, and waits
That he may find his mate.
The old bower bird has spread his seed in
Seasons past triumphantly
But builds again, though feathers may not shine
As bright, nor strut and step perhaps not so energized
Because this is what he needs to do…
And hopes that once again
She will appear and so approve,
When love and feather both draw near.