A bird comes on my windowsill,
And sings a song.
Sometimes, I give her a biscuit,
Sometimes bread crumbs.
She doesn’t eat anything but fresh.
Whenever it rains,
I find her taking shelter below the window shed.
The window appears to be her home,
For most of the day,
As throughout the night,
She sleeps in her nest,
Which she has built on a nearby tree.
Tomorrow morning, when she comes,
I would definitely tell her that,
I have written a post about her.
She will eat those bread crumbs with more gusto and may sing a few more beautiful songs.