Nitpickers

                                                NITPICKERS  

My dopey donkeys are sitting ducks 

for the crow and jackdaw 

that feather their nests with the furry stuff

they pluck

from next to donkey skin

hauling it homeward 

in beakfulls, for insulation     

I watch two of them go at it industriously

starting at rumps, scratching and scurrying along backs

taking turns, like choreographed Irish step dancers

a h-aon, a dó, a trí

a furious scurry, up and down the belly mounds 

out along the necks

a race on, in case a donkey stands up

before they’ve scavenged enough

Like fastidious mothers

who got notes home from school 

about the head lice

they scrutinise every inch of hide 

spindly brown legs are the unwieldy teeth 

of the nit pickers comb

separating hair strands with intent faces

beaks plucking, tails busy

eyes peeled for flapping velvet ears 

to flick a fly away

no threat

on they go, scratch, scratch

full steam ahead

while the donkeys lie still 

chewing the cud in morning sun

the scavengers criss-cross

over the crosses on their backs

then soar upwards and away

mouths furnished

job complete, nests replete

until springtime next year.