To wish him well, whoever he is, here's a poem I wrote at a time when I did such things:
Plump and round, pearly grey,
White flashes on his wings
Signal his approach.
But still a bumpy, heavy landing
Several feet from the grain.
Almost bewildered, looking round,
Why am I here?
Then sees the seed
And waddles to it, slow and indirect.
Neck spots up and down.
(26 May 1995)
And I picked and ate my first raspberry of the year today. Sometimes life's not too bad at all, huh?