I wrote a poem beginning:
'syllables fall on the green rust
they’re cold and have breathed through
the grey cumulus in time ...'
It was partly influenced by seeing a small rusty-breasted bird up very close from my kitchen window. I got out the bird book and still couldn't identify it. I wrote later in the original:
'and there are no new sentences
today they all are new
but not explaining where the temperature went
or why some days small birds arrive
with rusty breasts and that story
of movement ...'
I thought at the time the bird with the 'rusty breast' (most likely rufous throat), as opposed to the words in a poem, could possibly be a Leaden Flycatcher, a Welcome Swallow or, at a pinch, a Flame Robin. My glimpse had been a blink and nothing more, as a swallow (or not) would be bleeding obvious if I could see the tail at the right angle. It took till some time later while on a stroll down to the river and past the golf course to come across a whole flock of these birds which are, indeed, swallows.