The retreat garden

I sat in the retreat garden, bored and weary with the effort of “reflecting”, and looked at the bird bath. Nice touch, I thought, but no earthly use. Not enough birds around here for it to be worthwhile.
No sooner had the thought come and gone, when a plump magpie dropped in. With steady step she moved to the bowl, and hopped up to perch on its rim. She turned and took me in her gaze, then with an unselfconscious fluff of her feathers, she stooped down for the cool water. She raised her head up high to let the water trickle down her throat. This she repeated four or five times, before gracefully taking the short flight to an overhanging branch of a nearby tree.
I went back to my books with an acknowledgment that I was wrong again. It’s a lovely thing when birds accept our invitation for a visit, though!
I was roused by her song – that half chuckle, half chortle that maggies make with their beaks barely open. The solo came from her newly lubricated throat – sweet chatter in magpie tongue. I looked around for an accomplice – some black and white friend who would know and understand her message. But there was none.
She sang on for twenty five minutes, with an occasional pause and a turn of her head. It was as if this was her hour of worship – a hymn of praise to the Maker, sung by a choir of one – thanks for life, thanks for now, thanks for here!
I put down my books. Maybe this was a time just to drink and to chortle.
Sharonne