A Critical Time, 21 May   

A Critical Time

21 May

I got here early to look over Buga Buga, before
the meeting on strategies to save Koala habitat.
The sand bank is pockmarked like the man-in-
the-moon with pox, a Scarlet Jezebel flutters
over the stingray’s ambush sites, adding glitz
to the cold breeze and run-of-the-mill lighting.

One bird becomes two, a simple optical illusion,
a pair of grunting Ibis fly by, followed by a pair
of Wood Ducks, whistling thinly out if tune,
followed by a pair of Masked Lapwings screeching,
flesh beats hollow bones through hollow air,
blue as true, some kind of Aussie axis mundi.

This is a training site for synchronised flying, or
for birds in love. The river is washing them away
when a Galah circles yapping away, confidently
swooping, banking, diving then suddenly soaring
a tight loop and landing in a Brushbox. Surely,
he or she enjoyed that. There’s too much to enjoy.


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