I wake to sodden skies. Yesterday, not one
seam of blue, night spotting was cancelled.
The Kookas signal first light twenty minutes
later than usual, and without the light.
No other birds bother calling in this rain,
no music ameliorates the white noise. It’s just
air vibrating, so why doesn’t this sensation
of sound swirling about my head not matter?
The real question asks, why don’t we sing more?
The Striated Heron
First thing I saw in the river – a Curlew,
that archaic high-step along a spit of sand,
arced bill beguiled by food, always food.
Wyn points out the heron squatting
on its shadow, both carry darkness
into the river’s sparkling foil – sun at last.
From remarkable patience, still as dead
to a snatch and catch, scoots up into
the mangroves to scoff a sliver of silver.
Heads back, stops for a puddle cleanser,
resumes the edge of earth and water, rim
of continent, ocean margin. He starts jogging.
I follow, the light is better, but he’s wary.
There’s a dog roving the other bank, I back
off. I have strayed, the Curlew has vanished.
We are all breathing the same air, but these
birds stick to what they’re good at. They don’t
swarm and fuck up every corner of the planet.
~
Getting
~
Back home, Wyn spots new guests in the garden. An adult and young Frogmouth
