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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