The Tawny Frogmouth
The stars are humming, I’m recording, salvaging night music –
a dominant Katydid, the streaming cricket orchestra, incessant
aural shimmering with an ocean bass. Standing still, listening –
ducking, pure reflex, large dark wings zipping just over my head,
under the Milky Way, vanishing round the side of the house.
Stunned by the magical feather work, making no sound at all,
I surrender to the silence of space, these insects conceal.
Wyn meets me at the door, leads me into the bedroom, has just
turned a light on, saw a shape weighing on the railing,
just feet away, almost hidden by the edge of darkness.
Not moving a muscle, back to us, examining the garden,
reluctant to formally acknowledge our heavy-handed
service and wreckage. I fetch my camera, the bird’s gone
on another adventure through night’s soft solidity,
leaving us with garden stillness and the ancient songs.
