Having a conscience

The Sixth Day Bird

Chester Lowe

The Creator, creating the beasts of the field,

In a moment of whimsy could not help but yield

To an urge, and what could be fitter?

"I'll make Me one final whimsical critter!"

He began with the torso, spheroidal, prolate,

With legs short and stubby and toes six or eight.

The head wears a helmet with a strawberry top

And down-dangling wattles either straight or alop.

Most birds are melodious, with a tune for each

He endowed this one with a god-awful screech.

They seldom walk – 'tis a run or a trot,

Snatching bugs left and right, one for each polka-dot.

Their mentality makes them insatiably curious.

They greet things strange with clamor furious

He made 'em gregarious to run in a flock

Then, wearily spent, He looked at his clock.

The Sixth Day ebbed into night when He

Grinned as he rested and called it a GUINEA!

Throughout the winter small flocks of guinea fowl have daily been trotting across my lawn – east early in the morning and west late in the afternoon. Pecking at edibles and chirping in their funny way, never really taking notice of me sitting or standing on the stoep with a cup of coffee or sigarette, always looking at them: these peculiar fat, dotted birds that make me think of my father.

My father, the hunter, who loved nature, wildlife and 4x4 off-road trucks and Landcruisers. A larger-than-life, big-hearted, jovial man who took us, his family, on wilderness safari’s during the July holidays. Hunting season and into Botswana's unchartered, rough country where lions roared and hyenas laughed in the dark just outside the campfire light.

During our daily outings, my dad would regularly point at flocks of guinea fowl saying: "Ah! The hunt is still on, look, the guineas are still flocking."

Since the end of August the guinea-flocks here have been splitting up – no more early morning and late afternoon trotting or meandering across my lawn. Instead, a frenzied cocks-chasing-hens have been going on, and just as suddenly as the chasing started, it stopped. My dad would have commented: "Ah, look, the guineas have paired up." And he would have oiled his guns and packed them away until the next season when the chicks were raised and guinea fowl were flocking again.