At the Window

You must have a beak of steel

To pluck melody from this humid air

As it quavers in the heat


On a day meant for nothing

But contemplation and observation.

For you appear at the window


As sound permeates the stewey

Late afternoon, abandoning

Your choral duo of wail


And sigh turning both eyes

In my direction, strumming and

Pecking a currawong song


As I listen.  Up in a treetop attic

A chorister sings to a different tune

Stirring the creatures of meadowpatch


To timpani. The whole world seems

To jive and shimmy with heart-song

To the radiant jitterbug of heat-beat.


Copyrighted by the author





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