Blue Poles suite Jan 5th
The sky looks charred, the cicadas have started early so I boost the volume. Their series of crescendos scream high-pitched Salvation Army tambourines outside my window.
I pick a Pied Butcherbird’s thread and follow it back ramulose like. A couple of Kookaburras make inroads as I wait for Carla Bley, finger on record.
Jagun is happening outside my window: the bats have left, gliders are returning to their beds, the birds are getting busy.
Crickets and Katydid’s call up light on a grey cloudy morning. Jagun’s foliage is emerging green even the grey Blackbutt leaves. My pores feel porous, the world shares itself.
Black Cockatoos become available shrieking like bass seagulls as they lazily flap a meander overhead. Augers could use these for the weather, not repercussions in Iraq or Afghanistan. And a fig bird’s piercing muscular repetitions, dropping from somewhere on the tip of the canopy.
As if cultivated, the forest pours the sweet scent of Pink Bloodwood blossom. A squad of Rainbow Lorikeets splinter off an arm of Jagun and scream across a band of light, mirror of the ocean demarcating another starting point.
‘Rather than being a definite sort of thing – for example, physical, spiritual, cultural, social – a given place takes on the qualities of its occupants, reflecting those qualities in its own constitution and description and expressing them in its occurrence as an event: places not are, they happen.’ Edward Casey.
David Rothenberg concludes Why Birds Sing: “For the same reason we sing – because we can. Because we love to inhabit the pure realm of sound . . . No explanation will ever ease the eternal need for song.”