First are Kookaburras tipping sun into

a saucer of algid earth, into ghostly looms

of morning, slipping a cure into our

sleeping mouths. The dream world thrashes

out scenarios of human desire, subjugation,

subsides to the libertarian musings of birds

bidding for dawn. The constant access

of Thrush to diminutive rehearsed rhythms

balancing over first light, another unknown

bird rocks the ledge, picks the lock,

a sort of Woodpecker perhaps rat-a-tat-tats.

Magpie’s next, one clear chorus.

Kookaburra gathers again,

starts up its winding machine,

a contraption spitting, fitting, starting.

All the while that anonymous bird

cracks open the disc of fractious light –

gains access to the wet throat of morning.

Cockatoos are last, come screeching over the

crush of warmth as if to stifle back a divinity

whose opened gate has now discharging

un-numbered wonders; coition of the elements.

This unknown bird, a mirror, clinks far away,

dips its hot needle, its unending thread

into the light-pool, stitches a patina

over earth; extinguished gold, rusted lint.

The morning is opened, Magpie confirms it.