'Cock of the Walk' by Amanda Jones

“Oi!”

“What?”

“Who you looking at?”

He doesn’t answer. Bobbie is standing halfway between him and me. She’s looking down, studying the pavement, careful not to look at either of us.

“You looking at my bird?”

“Who says she’s your bird?”

I hope Bobbie will say something, but nada. We’re still setting up home, to be fair, but he doesn’t know that. I hope she’ll move towards me, but she’s as still as a statue. Scared.

“I said, who said she’s your bird?”

He stares at me. Says nothing.

“Think you’re Cock of the Walk, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Cock of the Walk, that’s me.”

I feel myself going into fight-mode, straightening up, puffing out my chest, making myself look bigger.

“Come over here and say that.”

“Cock of the Walk. Cock of the Walk! Nah, mate. You come over here.”

“Don’t go,” Bobbie says quietly. “Leave it Rob. Let’s just get on with what we’re doing.”

But I fly at him, faster than he can think. And then I see he’s only young, just trying it on like I did at his age.

“Rob...” she says again.

And now, it doesn’t matter. Before I reach him, he’s high-tailed it.

She’s right. What we’re doing is far more important. Making a home. Building a nest. I pick up the beakful of dry grass that I’d found for us and swoop over, land next to her.

She snuggles into my feathers. “Oh, Robin,” she says.