The Dendrocopos

I hear the tapping of the Dendrocopos,
Like the beating of a drum,
Then there is quiet.
I hear the pecking of the Dendrocopos,
Like the rhythm of a drill,
Then there’s a pause.
I hear the pitter-patter of the Dendrocopos,
The pitter-patter of tiny beaks,
Then there is silence.

I spot it from the hide,
Then it flies,
Up and down, but not upside down,
Bursts of flapping,
Passive glides with spreadeagled wings,
It bounds ahead, its wings bound to its sides.
It hides, in a perfect spot, behind the hide,
Behind the trunk, behind a branch, behind the leaves,
I can’t spot it.

I spot it again, I see the spots,
I see the red flash on its head,
I see the red flash of its tail,
The black and the white.
I see its shape against the tree,
Its beak is poised.
And I hear the tapping,
And the pecking,
The pitter-patter of the Dendrocopos.
It hides again behind the trunk, behind a branch, behind the leaves,
But is it a great-spotted, or is it spotted less?
I can’t spot it.
But it can’t be a great-spotted, they’re not spotted here,
Nor a lesser-spotted, they’re not spotted here,
It has to be the pitter patter of,
A Dendrocopos syriacus,
The Syrian Woodpecker is spotted here.