Before I moved out to the bush,
I never could have guessed,
The endless sizes, shapes, and shades
In which these birds are dressed.
The global count is hard to pin—
Some pages disagree—
But somewhere between eighty-six
And one-and-eighty-three.
They claim the earth from coast to coast,
Wherever they find grace,
Excluding cold Antarctica,
Though deserts hold a place.
South Africa boasts ten unique,
A brilliant, winged array:
The Brown-hooded and Giant,
The Malachite and Pied,
The Pygmy and the Woodland,
Where secret shadows hide.
The Mangrove and the Striped,
The Half-collared in blue,
And the Grey-headed kingfisher
Completing the review.
Nine of the ten I’ve proudly seen,
Adorned in brilliant crests;
The Mangrove is the final one
To finish up my quest.
We watch the Pygmy and the Brown
Come visiting our space,
To drink from our own backyard bath,
A gift of luck and grace.
The Pygmy is the smallest one,
A tiny, flashing spark.
The Giant is a massive sight,
That leaves a lasting mark.
And though their name implies a truth,
It is a half-told tale;
For fish is not the only prey
They successfully assail.
From rodents, snakes, and lizards,
To scorpions on the ground,
To water bugs and spiders,
And bats where they are found.
They linger by the water’s edge—
A river, lake, or stream—
And sit upon a solitary branch
To watch the ripples gleam.
A sudden flash, a breathless dive,
A launch into the blue—
They strike the water like a dart,
With aim forever true.
